Trece
by everymonkey
Summary: Jim Brass is still haunted by repercussions of the Bell shooting. Nick and Warrick get caught in a different kind of crossfire. S6, cowritten by kimonkey7 and everybetty NOW COMPLETE
1. Sarten

**Disclaimer: While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving.**

**SPOILERS/Timeline: Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'**

**UNDYING GRATITUDE: To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.**

**A/N: This is a co-written story; the squeaky gen fic-baby of two fangirls' long labor. All questions and comments should be directed to both ladies (Kim and Beth), please and thank you. This is old skool action!whump!friendship fic. Will post Thursdays and Mondays.**

* * *

"Hey, man. You mind turnin' up the heat a little?"

"You cold?"

"Heck, yeah, I'm cold. It's freakin' five thirty in the morning, Rick; I'm tired and hungry and cold, and I wanna go to bed."

"Man, you sure get pissy after back-to-back double shifts." Warrick shoots Nick a sly grin to let him know it's all play.

Nick rifles through the duffle in the back seat of the Denali. "Man, I didn't even bring a windbreaker or a sweater."

Warrick can't help but laugh. His partner sounds like an inconsolable six-year-old. "Aw, too bad Mommy didn't pack you off to work with warm clothes."

Nick drops back into the passenger seat, pulling down the sleeves of his deep blue henley. "Yeah, comin' from a guy whose wife packs his lunch, wakes him up, and makes his bed, that cuts real deep."

Warrick throws up one hand in mock surrender. "I mean, I can understand your upper lip bein' cold—"

"Shoot, man. Leave it alone already. I told you; it was an experiment. The moustache didn't work out, I shaved it off. Get over it."

"I wish I could," says Warrick through a humor-draped grimace.

"Yeah. Like I'm gonna take groomin' advice from an Ewok."

"Hey. Tina loves my hair."

"Like only a wife could."

"Exactly, bro," grins Rick, arriving on top once again.

Nick points to a spot halfway down the mostly dark block. "I think that's our _panaderia_, boss."

"Yeah, there he is."

The Denali pulls up and parks next to the Taurus, and a very rumpled Jim Brass approaches through the glare of the headlights. The CSIs ease out of the SUV and meet the detective at the edge of the scene.

"Jim."

"Hey, guys."

"You look tired, old man," Warrick teases lightly.

"Yeah, well, I haven't had my morning coffee yet."

"What do we have?" asks Nick, rubbing his hands up and down his arms.

"You cold, Nicky? You shoulda brought a jacket."

Warrick's head dips in stifled laughter and Nick shoots a look between his partner and the captain.

"Yeah. I got the memo already. Where's our vic?"

"Front door of the bakery."

Brass waits for them to grab their kits and then walks them to the entrance of the turquoise cinderblock storefront.

"ID in her wallet shows her as Graciela Flores. Senior at St. Mark's High School. ID could be a year or so old, but it looks like her."

The young woman is sprawled sideways in the tiny alcove of the bakery's front door, blood spread out under her like a blanket of dark, melted chocolate.

Their eyes dart around the immediate area, around and over the still form of the young woman.

"Holy shit," utters Warrick.

"Is she…she's pregnant," whispers Nick.

"Call went straight in to the coroner. They're not sending a bus." Brass pulls a small spiral notepad from his jacket pocket and flips to his notes. "Bakery owner came in at four a.m. through the back, didn't even come near the front door until around five to set out tables and chairs. Said when he tried to open the front door, he found her. Tried to help her, reported to 911 she was stiff when he touched her."

"Rigor," says Nick from a crouch at the edge of the blood pool.

"Yeah," sighs Warrick. "No way the baby's still alive, then."

"No," says Brass, rubbing a hand across his hair.

"Look at this, man," Nick says, motioning to his partner. "She's almost completely decapitated."

Warrick leans in for a closer view.

It's obscured by tangles of silky dark hair, but he can see what his partner is pointing out; the carmine gap that runs from ear to ear across the dead mother's neck. "Damn. That's pretty brutal."

"It'd take a helluva knife to cut like that."

"Hunting knife or machete or something."

Brass speaks up behind them. "There've been three machete assaults in this area in the past month. One other a fatality."

"Serial attacks?" ventures Warrick, taking his camera from his kit.

"I don't know," says the detective. "The baker seemed pretty tight-lipped, nervous. This area of town? I'm thinking gang related."

"_Mara Salvatruchas_," Nick says, rising from his crouch and slipping on gloves from his vest pocket. "MS-13."

Brass tilts his head at Warrick and hooks a thumb in the Texan's direction. "Guy speaks a little Spanish and he's an expert on Latino gangs?"

Nick delivers a consolatory grin to his co-workers and pulls out his own camera. "I caught a beer with Vega a couple weeks ago when we worked that home invasion over in Henderson. We were talkin' shop and he mentioned MS-13. Their signature weapon is the machete. Kinda stuck in my head."

Warrick rubs his hands together. "A'ight, boss. Let's do this. I'll snap East, you snap West?"

"Sounds like a plan."

* * *

A half hour's gone by the time they've documented the scene in photos; blood pool, spatter, a smeared shoe print: all they can without moving the girl's body. They take shots of the alcove, pieces of trash. Moving out and away from the dead woman, they continue collecting and cataloging trace. They number and shoot and bindle and bag; cigarette butts and candy wrappers, a stray sneaker, empty beer and soda cans, a used condom, gum. There's so much possible evidence it's impossible to tell what ISN'T probative.

Once he's finished crabbing down the sidewalk to the end of the block, Nick's no longer cold. The sun is beating down like it's not December at all, and sweat has turned his blue henley nearly black at the edges of his forensics vest. But it's his stomach that's troubling him now.

The little block of 13th Street is dotted with _panaderias, pupusarias_, and little mom-and-pop owned _restaurantes_ prepping for the morning crowds; the smell of steamed _tamales_ and spicy _recuados_ stewing with _carnitas_ makes his gut rumble and growl. He can't even remember the last time he's eaten – too busy, too distracted, too involved in the other two cases he and Rick had been working the past twenty-four hours. Grabbing a nice, dark _café con leche_ and a _semita_ is all Nick can think about until he's worked his way back close enough to the young woman's body for the metallic tang of blood to find purchase in his nose and throat once more.

"I feel like a damn garbage man," calls Warrick from ten feet away.

Both their kits are brimming with the over-night detritus of a city block.

"I hear ya, man. And it's slim t' none any of this is gonna do us any good, anyway. Where the hell's Phillips?"

"Speak of the devil," Warrick smiles, pointing to the coroner's assistant passing under the yellow tape Brass has strung around the scene.

"Sorry I'm so late, guys."

"'S alright, Super Dave. We had plenty to do in the mean time."

"If it makes you feel any better, Catherine, Sara, and Greg are stuck on a double fatality, three car pile-up with shots fired off the strip."

"Happy holidays," Nick mutters sardonically.

"Yeah, well, let's get this wrapped up and motor, before we get pulled onto that one, too," says Warrick, motioning the young ME over to the bakery's tiny alcove.

"Oh," whispers David, taking in the pregnant woman's body.

"Yeah," says Nick, depositing his kit and switching out the memory card in his camera for another series of photos.

David steps carefully around the blood pool, setting down his bag. "You guys shoot this already?"

"Everything we could until you clear her," says Nick, adjusting the strap of the Nikon around his neck.

"Coffee, anybody?" asks Brass, back from another chat with the _panaderia_'s owner. He presses a warm, white Styrofoam cup into both CSI's hands, sipping from a third.

"Oh, perfect, man," smiles Nick, drawing greedily on the hot liquid.

"Thanks, Jim," says Warrick between cooling breaths over the cup.

"Baker man's still not talking, but he does make a nice cup of joe. Sorry, David. Didn't know you were here or I'd have brought you one."

"It's okay. Had mine at the morgue. Let me just get a liver temp," says the assistant coroner. He kneels beside the young mother and gently pulls her hip toward him. He lifts the edge of her maternity top and pauses a moment. "Uh, guys? I think you might want to see this."

The three men approach, cradling their coffees.

"What's up, Super D?"

The coroner lifts up the woman's blouse revealing a prosthetic stomach and breasts. "I don't think we're looking at a stork situation as much as we are a mule."

Nick shoots several photos of the prosthesis, coffee set reluctantly on the sidewalk at his feet.

Phillips extracts a small baggie of white crystals from the folds of material around the torso of the body, holding it out to the CSIs. "This was caught inside her shirt."

"Aw, shit," mumbles Warrick.

"Crystal," says Nick, retrieving the baggie with a freshly gloved hand. "There more in there, David?"

The young ME hands him another small, Zip-loc'ed satchel, reaches inside the foam-padded stomach, and pulls out one more. "That's it."

"Looks like somebody knew to clean her out," Brass says.

"Yeah," says Warrick, wiping his forearm across his chin.

Nick snaps off a few more photos and then rises. "I guess we have motive."

"You okay if I go ahead and transport?" asks David.

"Yeah, sure. We got what we need," says Nick, removing the Nikon from his neck.

They watch in silence as Phillips bags the young woman's body and wheels her off to the morgue wagon.

"This seem familiar to you guys at all?" Warrick's mouth and jaw are tight, one hand massaging the back of his neck.

"Drugs and murder? Yeah, I think we've seen it once or twice," chuffs Brass.

Nick doesn't like the worry worming across his partner's face. "What's up, boss?"

Warrick glances carefully between the two men. He shifts from foot to foot and takes in the sidewalk for a few beats.

"Rick?" Nick nudges, stepping closer to his partner.

Warrick looks up, pinched regret falling roughly across his face. "The Bell case."

The atmosphere of the immediate area seems to change: breaths drawn in by all three men, electricity crackling.

Brass's thin lips purse and his head ticks once, pulling to the right. "The Buick Regal."

"Fausto?" asks Nick.

Warrick's head bobs once. He watches Brass nervously as he speaks: "Yeah. I mean, the original pursuit. Contranos and Guerro. Cath found a prosthetic stomach at the bust scene."

"Where'd that end up goin'?" asks Nick.

"Straight to La Tuna, as far as I know. Those two clammed up like a coupla Boy

Scouts in church."

"You worked that with Cavalier, right?" Brass's voice is quiet and tight.

"Yeah. Yeah, lemme try to get him on the phone, see if he can give us anything."

But before any of the men makes a move, a timpani of gunfire echoes through the morning air.

"What the--?" Three heads swivel in the direction from which the pops originate.

"That's close - about a block away," Nick observes, hand falling to his service piece.

Brass tosses him a warning glare and a parting shot as he dashes for his vehicle. "Easy there, Dirty Harry." He's not even looking as he runs, eyes on the cartridge he is double-checking in his 9mm.

He throws open the passenger side door of the Taurus and lifts the radio to his mouth. "Dispatch, this is Bravo Robert Alpha 179 requesting backup in the 1300 block of Puesta del Sol. Repeat, Puesta del Sol at 13th Street. Code 443. Officer in need of assistance. Multiple shots fired. Code 3."

The small handheld receiver is dashed down to the seat and Jim is halfway around to the back of the car. The trunk popped, he grabs the rifle from its lid mount, practiced hands cracking the barrel and checking the ammo.

"Okay, listen up you two mutts! You stay in the goddamned yard! I mean it. If you wanna stick around, then hightail it back to the Denali and stay put until a uniform shows up."

The captain's face reads '_don't piss me off'_ mixed with guilt/fear and hesitation, then he takes off on foot past the _panaderia_ where Graciela Flores was found, and down the dirty alleyway.

"You know, it's probably just a drive by," Warrick muses, but isn't making any move toward the Denali.

"Yeah. You're probably right," Nick agrees with a slow nod, chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip. And also makes no move toward the truck.

"Jim's probably just paranoid. You know. 'Cause of the Bell thing."

"Yeah, well it's just 'cause of the shit he took for the Bell thing that makes me wanna do what the man says, Rick." Nick places weight on one foot and leans, showing his intent to head back toward the truck.

Warrick mulls this over for a bit, then nods his head shortly in acceptance. "'Kay," he sighs.

"But we carry for a reason, man. Doesn't feel right not following him."

"Copologists- not cops, Rick. 'Sides, with how bad your aim is, Jim's probably safer with us not there," Nick says with a smirk.

"You should talk, son. Sir Flinch-a lot."

"My last eval score's better than yours. You need to check your facts, bro."

And the two keep jawing at each other, but neither makes any real move toward the Denali.

Nick finally does the honorable thing and starts off toward the truck, stopping as they hear more gunfire in the distance.

Warrick takes a few long strides and passes him, headed for the driver's seat with a competitive, sly grin on his face. Nick just shakes his head with a laugh.

"Long as you get the heat fired up, you can drive. Hell, I'll crash out in the back. You know it's gonna take forever for a uni to show up."

"Don't you worry, Miss Daisy," Warrick cracks. "I'll get her all cozied up for you." The smile slides from his face as more gunfire is heard. "Ain't no drive-by. Sounds like all out war."

Nick's back to chewing on his lip. "You hear any sirens yet?"

"Nope. Let's check the radio."

Both men speed up and haul themselves into the truck, Nick lifting the mouthpiece from its base as Jim's voice crackles to life.

"_Dispatch this is Bravo Robert Alpha 179. Where the hell is my back up? Code 444, multiple gunmen, 1300 block of Puesta del Sol. Respond with lights and sirens."_ The fear and anger in his voice is clear in the static-filled transmission.

The two toss heavily loaded looks at each other and simultaneously throw their doors open, making a mad dash toward the battlefield.

* * *

They round the corner of a _carniceria_, half a goat hanging in the glass front next to a dozen freshly plucked fowl carcasses.

The sound of gunfire is deafening now, mixed with shouts in Spanish and the occasional cry from innocent bystanders crouched behind shot-up cars and in shop entrances.

Warrick stops briefly, hands on his knees, his chest heaving with every breath. Nick is almost as winded, and he wipes sweat from his brow with the back of what he realizes is a still latex-covered hand.

The block has been turned into a latter-day Tombstone, Arizona. High noon at the fucking OK Corral. Men with guns cover each side of the street, barrels poking out of broken windows, men slouching behind mailboxes and light poles. A dark SUV, fully pimped out with spinning rims and a lowered chassis, sits running against a curb. The end of an automatic peeks out a driver's side window, smoke curling from it as another hail of bullets flies.

There's no sign of Jim, and Nick hopes that the detective has hidden himself away someplace safe. Not that there's really a safe place on the block.

"'S like fucking Kandahar here, man!" Nick bites out. _What the fuck? And yeah, where the hell is the backup? _"By the time the unis show up it'll be nothin' but blood stains left."

Warrick shakes his head angrily, not replying, just pointing his hand toward an open doorway in a small _mercado_ one shop over on the block from their corner. The front window of the market is still intact, and for the few minutes of observation Warrick hasn't seen anyone firing from within.

"How you see our chances makin' it there, bro?" Nick asks with a sardonic laugh.

"Never ask that of a gamblin' man," his partner answers with a snort. "It's our best option, though. We'll get a better view and be outa the line of fire."

Nick sizes up the situation quickly, nods his agreement, and shoots his buddy a _'you go first' _look.

Warrick grunts out a laugh, then crouches with his 9mm in hand and takes a step around the corner.

The gunfire has slowed a bit; whether the shooters are running out of ammunition or dying off is one of many questions. Like who the fuck are the players in this, and where the hell is SWAT or the Gang Unit, or even some fucking tans in squad cars?

It's World War III and the good guys are two science geeks and a roly-poly detective in his fifties.

Nick follows his partner, gun held carefully, barrel aimed up and over the taller man's shoulder. Warrick holds up a hand in classic ops style. Nick shakes his head once at the image of playing soldier as a kid; the extent of his military training.

A mother is laying down behind a '78 El Dorado, a boy of three or four squatting next to her. His hands are over his ears as he screams bloody murder; sobbing relentlessly, face purple. The mother has one hand gripping the boy so tightly her fingers practically disappear into his chubby upper arm. The Caddie was already in rough shape; no cream puff this car. No bling, just rust and Bondo. Now it's riddled with bullet holes as well.

A shot rings off the front steel bumper and the woman yelps, her hand loosening for a split second as she instinctively flinches.

The little boy is already spring-loaded on his haunches and bolts away, hands still over his ears, that and the continuous gunfire blotting out his mother's agonized screams.

"_Mijo!_"

The mother scrabbles on the pavement, hands grabbing on to the rust bucket's rear bumper as she tries to follow. Another bullet ricochets near her knee and she recoils back, then lunges again for her son who has stopped in front of the market's doorway, eyes saucered wide, spittle mixed with tears flying from his gaping mouth.

Nick sees the kid first, shoving his partner in the shoulder and pointing at the kid.

A bullet strikes the doorway of the market, but the child never flinches.

Warrick pushes off with his long legs, crouched down, upper body as parallel to the ground as he can make it, and slams down the sidewalk toward the kid. Nick is at his back, eyes flicking between the boy and the street, then at the mother.

The woman makes another attempt to reach her son, a bullet striking her in the shoulder, flinging her back behind the car to lay in the dusty street, barely moving.

"Mom's hit!" Nick shouts.

But Warrick is all kid right now; his entire focus on the boy. His only thought - his only fucking prayer – is to NOT see the kid jerk; body riddled by lead.

They are at the Caddie. Nick falls to his knees at the woman's side and pulls her up by the armpits. She's small, barely out of her teens. Her tee shirt, picture of Mexican pop star Luis Miguel emblazoned in a large pink heart, is covered in a steadily growing crimson stain.

Warrick makes it to the boy, his breath held as he snatches the kid into the air and wraps him in his long arms. Two more strides takes them into the _mercado_ and he drops to his ass behind the safety of the stucco front wall, kid still squealing and wriggling like a greased pig in his arms. A bullet strikes the front window inches above his head and a small rain of shattered glass falls on them as Warrick enfolds the boy beneath him. The bullet continues its trajectory into the store, absorbed by a ten pound burlap sack of _arroz_.

Nick has the mom cradled in his arms and throws himself through the entranceway to the opposite side as a bullet hits the door frame, wooden splinters flying. He dumps the woman down next to him, holding her back as she tries to launch for the boy.

"He's okay, ma'am!" Warrick shouts to her, unfolding long enough for the mom to see her boy.

The young woman slumps in relief, sobbing. Her head falls to Nick's shoulder, her tears and her blood soaking his henley.


	2. Fuego

**Disclaimer:** While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving.

**SPOILERS/Timeline:** Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'

**UNDYING GRATITUDE:** To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.

* * *

The part of his brain not tracking gunfire and figuring out ways to cover his ass is composing the verbal and written reprimands that are absolutely without fucking QUESTION to come.

From his spot inside the doorway of a shop selling piñatas and assorted party supplies, partially shielded by a parked car and a row of newspaper boxes, Capt. Jim Brass sees Stokes and Brown come out a blind alley half a block down and walk into the middle of the firefight.

"Son of a bitch!"

He's really just trying to get an idea of all the players, the range of arsenal in use, the nests of origin, and the safest place to be because – _GOD DAMN IT_ and _MOTHERFUCKER_ – there's no siren noise yet, no back-up, and he's in this alone. Him and Nick and Warrick, and too many innocent bystanders hunkered on sidewalks and inside little stores.

He tries his damnedest not to give in to the voice in his head that's trying to remind him of Bell and Curtis and a scene like this, just months ago. The flashes of cold stares and stony silences from IAB and uniforms that tell him he's a second-rate cop. And that maybe responders are taking their time because, hell, who cares about helping out a Jersey boy who can't shoot straight around one of their own?

Up and to his left, a series of bullets penetrate the glass of the storefront. The window comes down in a shower of diamonds, ripping apart tissue and papier-mâché effigies of cartoon characters Brass doesn't recognize. He stills long enough to innocently mourn the absence of a candy pay-off, and then he's twisting around the ruined corner of the shop, firing off what's left in his magazine before he drops and pops it – hot against his fingers – and slams a new one home.

He spies through the empty window frame, trying to locate Nick and Warrick. There are enough tats and white tee-shirts, long Dickie shorts, and Nike Cortez to prove this is some kind of gang dispute. The tricked out Escalade with the spinning rims (which alone probably cost more than he takes home in a month) starts to make a slow get away from the curb and once it's gone, Jim is privy to the sight of his two CSIs making an erratic run across the street, ducking gunfire all the way.

"Jesus Christ."

He grabs his walkie and screams again for the help that's long overdue:

"Dispatch, this is Bravo Robert Alpha 179. Code 443, 1300 block of Puesta del Sol. You copy? Multiple shots fired! I need back-up and medical personnel. Multiple civilians hit!"

"Copy, Bravo Robert Alpha 179. You have three units en route."

A line of bullets pings its way across the metal newspaper boxes crowded in front of the piñata store, and Jim meets the sidewalk quicker than he's moved in a while. He's not hit, he knows, but he's pretty sure he feels the whiz of one or more bullets enter his air space. The front of one news box explodes apart, newsprint confetti flying, quarters spilling out like an urban slot paying a jackpot.

"Dispatch, you got an ETA on those units?"

"ETA is three minutes."

"Not soon enough," the detective mumbles under his breath and swings around the corner once more, a line of lead making for any of the bad guys.

* * *

Outside, the storm of bullets is as fierce as the rain of adrenaline coursing through the two CSIs and the innocent civilians they're trying desperately to protect.

"How bad is she?" Warrick asks. He scoots across the floor of the _mercado_ toward Nick and the injured woman, wrangling the screaming child like a crocodile.

The boy, frightened and frantic, kicks and claws and squirms until he's crawling into the safety of his mother's lap.

"_Seño, esta bien. Esta bien_," Nick assures her, stripping off his contaminated gloves, trying to get a look at the wound in her shoulder.

"You got it wrong, _ese_. It's not okay at all."

Both CSIs turn toward the voice. The voice and the gun aimed in their general direction.

Warrick barely has time to twitch when the heavily tattooed man drops a bead on him.

"I don't think you're that fast, cop." His gun, but not his eyes, travels to Nick and then to the woman and her softly sobbing son. "I'ma get one of them before you get me. Slide it over."

Warrick curses under his breath, darts a look at Nick, and slides his service weapon across the worn cement floor to the punk.

Tattoo stops the pin-wheeling gun with a sneakered foot, then thrusts his chin at Nick. "You too, _weto_."

Nick's face pinches for a second. "Hey, man, listen—"

"No, you listen. Slide me your fucking Glock, bro. Or I'ma cap that _puta_ and then her little _guacho_."

Nick can't completely hide the sneer of disgust; his upper lip quivers and his eyes narrow as he reaches behind him and brings out his gun, butt dangling between his index finger and thumb. "Look, man, we're not cops. We're—"

"Shut the fuck up, man!" Tattoo yells, and his burst of anger is punctuated by a burst of gunfire outside. "Slide that gat over here now, or you ain't gonna be anything in a second."

The corners of Nick's mouth blush and rise, quickly falling with a blast of air from his nose. He gently lays his service weapon on the floor of the _mercado_ and then thrusts it roughly toward the assailant.

Warrick flicks green, angry eyes at him, warning caution.

The bullets are still flying in the street outside, but underneath, all of them hear the keen of sirens. They're far off, but sounding louder every tense second.

The man with all the guns is thick but hard muscled under the weight of his fifteen or so extra pounds. Almost every inch of exposed flesh is covered by portraits and glyphs, letters and numbers in broad Olde English font. The black ink stands out clearly and cleanly against the young man's caramel skin. The tattoos peek from the neck of his bright white t-shirt, climbing up over his cheeks and shaved skull. The artful calligraphy vines down both arms, across the tops of both hands.

Neither CSI misses the steel assuredness, total absence of tremor, in the hand holding the gun.

Nick may have been close to losing his cool a few seconds ago, but when the gang banger starts barking orders in Spanish, he's careful to make sure his uni-lingual partner understand as much as possible.

"_Hey, t__ú__ ven pa' ac__á__. Y el bitcho tambi__é__n. ¡R__á__pido!_"

"Hey, man. Come on. She's hurt. What do you need her for?"

"You got a mouth on you, _pan blanco_. Somebody oughtta teach you a lesson on keepin' it shut."

There's a shout from the back of the store, the crash of a glass jar, and two more inked assailants rush in. They're both armed, pushing in front of them a frightened older man who's crying lightly and muttering in Spanish.

The larger of the two new bangers on the scene has the terrified man by the collar, gun pressed against the back of his neck. "_Abuelo_ was delivering fruit. His truck's out back, man. Let's go, uh?"

It takes a bit for all three punks to get on the same page, for them to get their heads around what the other of them has done. Takes a few precious seconds for their brains to bustle over the hail of bullets outside, the plaintive wail of the police sirens, and see the three of them are stuck in that proverbial middle ground between rock and really fucking hard place.

The stutter in the continuum is long enough for Nick to do a couple of things: there's a flash of communication between himself and his partner - _I need your trust_ - and when that's confirmed with a well-delivered blink, Nick's eyes set to work around the little grocery store.

He's looking for anything that might help even the playing field. If he can create a diversion – _hell_ - just get any of the assailants talking calmly for a second - they have a better chance. Help is on the way, he can hear it getting closer with every breath. Barring rescue, though, he's searching for possible weapons. And he spies one almost immediately.

The _mercado_ may be tiny, but it's full service; meat counter in the back, dried and canned goods, personal items, even shiny silver tamale pots lining the top row of shelves against the far wall. And up front, not three feet from him, is a well stocked little produce section. Melons, mangos, oranges, and a whole branch of bananas lying atop a stand all by itself. Along side it, a machete. Nick briefly imagines the grocer using the deceptively dull-looking knife to hack off a bunch of bananas for a customer.

"Jeff, man! _Salgamos de ac__á__. ¡V__á__manos!_ Let's go!" says the antsy, gun-toting newcomer.

The tattooed original gangster never takes his eyes or his aim off the still bleeding woman and her young son. "You got wheels?"

The sirens are close, maybe ten or twelve blocks off, and Nick tries for the path of rationality. "You should take off, man. Before the cops swarm in. You didn't do anything and—"

"Shut up! Fuck! Why do you keep talking, cop?"

It's clear who's Moe amongst these three stooges. "Get up," Jeff says to Nick, motioning roughly with the gun.

"Jeff, man. What the fuck you doing?" says the other banger, tugging on the fruit truck man's collar.

Nick pushes himself up to a squat, raises his hands in calm surrender. His eyes dart quickly to the machete.

The woman moans and grabs at Nick's shirt sleeve. "_No se vaya, por favor. Por favor, no me deje sola_."

"_Todo va a salir bien_," he assures the terrified mother, peeling her fingers gently from his arm. "It'll be okay, ma'am."

Jeff shoots a look at Warrick, but the gun stays on Nick. "You, too, _champiñon. Arriba_."

Warrick looks to him for a translation of what he knows was some jibe, but Nick just smirks and shakes his head lightly: _Let it go._ _Just play along, boss._

"Let's go, cop!"

Warrick imitates Nick's slow rise, hands lifted loosely in front of him.

More sirens wail in the distance.

"Jeff, man! Let's go!"

Jeff's head swivels quickly to his anxious counterpart. _"¡Por la puta, c__á__llate, pelon!"_

It's the best chance Nick has; he takes a step – one tiny step – to his right and reaches for the machete.

* * *

Jim's Sig is hot, the grip held bruisingly tight in his hand as sweat slickens his palms. He knows this for what it is. They used to call it Jersey Justice back home, a million years ago. They'll show with excuses about missed calls, crossed signals. They'll blame it on traffic, dispatch; hell, he'd heard of cops claiming sudden bouts of explosive diarrhea. No shame when you know it's made up and everyone else knows, too.

Another bullet whines past his ear and strikes the stucco behind him. His face is already sliced into a myriad of cuts from the metal shrapnel of his de facto shield.

Blood mixes with sweat, the salty copper fluid stinging his eyes, blurring the street into watercolors.

The sirens are coming in from the east. Another set, further away, to the north. He's not the only one who can hear them.

The flurry of bullets slows as each ear picks up the sound, recognizes it as multiple car response. Doors slam shut as a few duck into the buildings. Shouts in Spanglish, mixed pack calls to fellow members and taunting threats as feet beat retreat up the block.

_There._ Two tattooed and wife beater-clad thugs make a break for a tricked-out, chopped and dropped Chevy, popping off shots wildly behind them. The one is tall and wiry; a shaved-head scarecrow. As he throws himself through the driver's side door of the Impala, Jim catches the flash of royal blue and white stripes on the back of his right calf; the Salvadoran flag emblazoned in ink.

The other banger's smaller and just as thin. He pauses to hitch up his baggy jeans and Jim draws a bead on him as he sprints for the Chevy. A last second hesitation Jim curses for what he knows causes it, and the bullet lands in the meaty part of Baggy's barely denim-clad ass.

The banger's hand drops the gun and grabs at the offended part as he stumbles, clawing for the door of the Impala, but his buddy revs up the engine and leaves him in a cloud of dust.

The first of the cruisers rounds the corner and Jim pops up from behind the box, badge out in his left hand held high, waving his gun in clear direction- follow the SUV. Shotgun officer in the cruiser nods once and the car's V8 growls as they take off in pursuit, more patrol cars filling in the end of the block. They pull into formation, barricading off the street at one end, all units shutting the sirens off practically in unison.

Car doors fly open, unis dropping to their knees in their shelter, shotguns perched, eyes scanning frantically for targets.

* * *

About five things happen in the split second after Nick makes his move: tires squeal and cop voices ring out, the gunfire erupts again, the woman screams and so does her son, Jeff turns toward Nick. And then the butt of the gangster's Glock is crashing across Nick's cheekbone, the machete clanging to the cement floor of the store.

Rising slowly from his hands and knees, Nick sees Warrick surge forward until he's stopped by the barrel of a gun against his neck; the third Inked Wonder. Nick's vision is popping from bright to brighter, blur to brilliance, but he's distinctly aware of the very, VERY angry man holding a gun just inches from his face.

More shouts from the street, in Spanish and English both, and then bullets are flying freely again.

Nick's right hand cautiously skims his face. His upper lip's split just left of center, his nose is bleeding at a pretty steady flow from one nostril, and the top of his left cheek is hatching one hell of a goose egg; skin already tight and smooth with swell.

"You must be _loco_ if you think I won't kill you right here, cop," Jeff hisses at Nick, lips curling back to show one silver central incisor.

"Come on, _Jefe_. He's a cop, man," pleads the banger with his hand fisted tightly on the elderly truck driver's shirt collar.

The wail of more sirens and gunfire bleeds into the tiny shop from the street. Nick absently wipes blood from his mouth and nose with the back of his hand.

"'S why they're comin' with us. _Conejo_," Jeff calls to the wiry gangster with the gat at Warrick's neck.

"Yo."

"_¿Tu tienes al negro?"_

"Got 'im."

Jeff slowly tracks the nose of the gun to the wounded woman and her small son. "_La boca de las ratas es lo __ultimo__ que se quema en el infierno._ You hear me, _puta_? You never seen us." He calls over his shoulder, _"¡Viejo¿Oíste?"_

"_Sí, sí_," whimpers the old man. He's shoved forward by his captor and stumbles past Nick, falling to his knees. He skitters next to the young mother and child.

Jeff's free hand strikes forward and roughly grabs Nick's shirtfront. The banger pulls him close and rams the cold barrel of the gun against his forehead. "You try anything again, _weto_, and my friend's gonna put a bullet in your friend's neck. _¿Comprende?"_

Nick sees Warrick's lips twitch in frustration, and he knows it's not because his partner's worried about the punk on his back, but because Nick can't disguise his dizzy swaying, and really doesn't need the extra thunk from the gun to his head.

"You understand me, cop?" Jeff asks again, retracting the gun an inch and then once more jamming it brutally against Nick's skull.

"Yeah. I got it," grinds Nick.

Jeff slides around Nick's side, tattooed arm releasing the fistful of henley and rising to ring the CSI's neck. "_Salgamos de ac__á__, vaqueros_."

They're prodded and dragged toward the back entrance of the shop. Nick knows their chance of survival has just dropped, will drop again EXPONENTIALLY if they leave the scene. He does his best to brush against the shelving he's dragged past, leaving physical evidence for the team. While he doesn't want to raise alarm among his friends and colleagues, he knows the blood will eventually be identified as his, and that may give him and Warrick a tiny edge.

When they pass the register, Nick spies the legs and feet of a male – _probably the owner_ – sticking out past the counter on the floor. One of the man's loafers has slipped off his foot and his white sock wicks up blood from the pool beneath him. _Aw, hell_…

As he's herded into the alley, Nick swipes his bloody fingers across the door frame; cayenne smears pointing to their exit.

The alley is surprisingly quiet and clear, all the action still out on Puesta del Sol. The CSI's are pushed toward the back of the boxy produce truck. The rear double doors swing open, and the one they keep calling Rabbit pushes Warrick forward until his thighs bang violently against the bumper of the truck.

"Get in, cop."

While Warrick climbs into the vehicle, Nick sniffs deeply, pulling blood and mucous from his sinuses down to the back of his throat. He coughs, gagging on the metallic phlegm, and spits to the side. The red mess hits the asphalt like an overripe strawberry.

Nick hopes it looks natural, his little street theater scene. He's doing his damnedest to leave clues; store to back room, back room to alley. He's planning on touching everything he can once he gets in the truck. When nightshift finds the vehicle abandoned – like he knows they will – at least they'll be able to connect the dots. He just hopes it's dots they'll be connecting, not bodies they'll be identifying.

* * *

The block is quiet but for the moans and swearing of Baggy, still face down in the dusty street, blood pouring from the bullet wound in his ass to pool on the ground beneath him. His wails are competing and winning against the tinny sirens fading in pursuit, and crying and hysterical screaming from the store front Brass's two wayward CSIs entered.

"Nice show, assholes," Jim mutters at the honeycomb of cruisers now chock-a-block down Puesta del Sol. All this sound and fury and saber rattling and all the bad guys have already fucking left.

He waits another few heartbeats to make sure no stragglers are around to take potshots at him, then slowly emerges from behind the paper box, wiping a shaking hand across stinging eyes.

One of the tans runs over, kicks away the discarded gun, and secures the bleeding Baggy's hands behind his back. The thug is hauled ungently to his feet, cursing and struggling despite the blood loss. He pulls back his head back and spits in the uni's face, and Jim turns a blind eye as Baggy gets his thanks for the nasty little present.

An older uni walks over slowly, head tilted to the side with concern as he approaches. He won't meet Jim's eyes.

"Tooley." Jim says it almost plaintively. They go way back. Ten years or more.

"Sorry, Jim," O'Toole replies, voice heavy with regret. "We, uh…" He pauses, tosses a look at a pair of tans chatting and staring. He squares his shoulders and glares at the two, flicking his chin at them to clear out and get moving. "Construction on Fremont," he finally offers, begging Jim with his eyes to let it be.

"Yeah," Jim says with a sigh. "Construction can be a real bitch. You got cleanup out here, Tooley. I've got some geeks to go round up."

Jim finally holsters his Sig, the metal warm on his hip as he replaces it in its worn leather pouch. O'Toole is still staring at him, reaches into a pocket and pulls out a handkerchief.

He offers it to Jim, and the detective accepts it. Takes it in a hand still not steady, and mops his brow with it. When he pulls it away it's streaked with bright red in a few places. He folds over the square and dabs at a sore spot on his cheek, wincing as he realizes too late that there's still something imbedded there. Glass, paper box, stucco?

Without another word to his old buddy he tucks the cloth into his pocket and makes his way over to the market.

A puddle of blood like chocolate pudding, skin on top and all, sits on the filthy sidewalk by the rusted out Caddie. Shit. The woman - the mother. And the kid.

* * *

The nameless one, the one who'd had the truck's original owner by the collar in the grocery, is driving. Nick can't see anything from the windowless, blown-shocks back of the truck, but it doesn't seem like they're being pursued. He doesn't hear any sirens, and that's a little heartbreak. His vision's still a bit swimmy, and every jolt and jostle sends him pinioning around the cold metal of the corrugated floor, bouncing off crates of fruit and vegetables. He presses his hand gingerly against the left side of his face, checking for fractures. Feels a little lucky when everything seems intact.

Warrick's seated to his left, perched on a stack of bagged onions. Conejo – '_Rabbit', _Nick's brain translates – sits to Warrick's left, gun aimed and steady, flicking back and forth between the two of them.

The one called Jeff is on a cell to his right, screaming in Spanish to whomever's on the other end. It's rapid-fire, littered with slang, and hard for him to follow, what with the headache that's quickly clouding his brain. But he gets the gist of it.

These three, and two other gang members, had been in the neighborhood taking care of something when the gunfire erupted. The fourth of the group, their wheel man, ostensibly – nicknamed _Cohete_ – had panicked and taken off, stranding the other three. The fifth guy didn't even get a mention – at least hadn't made it to the _mercado_ with the others.

Jeff's pissed, threatening, warning of retribution, and making arrangements for the truck to be dumped after they reach their destination.

Warrick juts his chin in Nick's direction, asking without words if he's okay. Nick responds with a slight nod, a flick of his wrist that implies he'll make it, if not be a little sore.

Jeff punches the disconnect on the phone and pinches up his face, clenches his jaw. Nick watches the man's tattooed fingers blanch and whiten as he tightens them around the phone. A fraction of a second later, he watches the cell phone smash against the truck's wall just above Warrick's head. His partner ducks, wild-eyed, arms rising reflexively to cover his head.

"That little pussy is dead."

The one called Rabbit smiles and sniggers.

"You think this is funny, _pelon_?"

"Eh, man. They don't call the little bastard _Cohete_ for nothing. I tol' you not to leave 'im in the car."

Jeff's eye's narrow, his head tilting to the left. "What'd you say to me?"

Rabbit's smile melts right off his face. "Bro takes off first sign of trouble. 'S why they call 'im Rocket, _jefe_."

Nick notices it instantly, from the corner of his eye sees Warrick does, too; the mollifying subversion of Jeff's name has been dropped twice, and both times the tattooed man has calmed and swelled a little. Jeff became _jefe_, and Jeff's CLEARLY not the boss – not _el jefe_ in this gang - but he WANTS to be.

Both CSIs file that observation away for later.

"When we get to the shop," says Jeff, pointing at the wiry banger with the gun in Warrick's side, "You find _Cohete_ and you take care of 'im. _¿Comprende?"_

"I got you, _hermano_," says Rabbit, his smile returning as more of a smirk.

Both CSIs file that away, too.

* * *

To be continued... 


	3. Escaramuza

**Disclaimer:** While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving.

**SPOILERS/Timeline:** Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'

**UNDYING GRATITUDE:** To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.

* * *

Jim pulls his gun free once again, eases himself slowly around the door of the _mercado_. There, at the front of the store, back against the wall under the front window, sit three people. The mother, screaming and sobbing, clutching her kid to her breast tight enough to suffocate, and an old man.

"Hey!" he whisper-yells. "Hey-" trying to get one of their attentions. The senior _señor_ looks up and shakes his head.

Jim pulls his suit coat free of his badge, then makes a pretend gun with his left while the real one stays in his right. _"¿Hombres malos?"_ he asks while pulling a phantom trigger. "¿_Aqui?_" And that's pretty much the extent of his Spanish.

The old man keeps shaking his head, then points a gnarled finger toward the back of the store. "_Se fueron en mi camioneta con los dos policies_."

And all Jim gets out of it is _policia._ _"¿Dos policia?" _he asks clumsily, flashing the old guy two digits.

"_Si. Se los llevaron a los dos_."

Jim sighs sadly, dropping the gun down a bit as he sidles further into the market. He lifts his radio from his hip, thumbs the call button. "Dispatch, this is Bravo Robert Alpha. Where are my buses?"

"Bravo Robert Alpha, we are waiting on an all clear of scene before medical personnel respond. They're waiting one block over on 15th."

"Well, tell 'em it's clear and to get their asses over here!" he spits back.

"Roger that," the operator says coolly.

"Yeah, roger this," Jim mutters as he clips his radio back in place.

The mother's shoulder wound is still bleeding but she's also still conscious. Jim drops down to his haunches next to her. "Ma'am? You _habla _any English?"

The little boy wrests his head from her embrace and shakes his head. Tears and blood from his mom's wound have ruined the bright yellow Sponge Bob tee. "She doesn't speak English," the boy says with only the lightest of accents. He wipes a pudgy brown hand across his upper lip, dragging a shiny string of mucus with it.

Jim reaches into his pocket, pulls out the handkerchief Tooley had given him. There's still some free white space and Jim folds the square over and hands it to the little boy.

The kid stares at it as if it might bite, and it's clear he has no idea what it's for. Jim mimes wiping his nose and the boy parrots him, then tries to hand back the cloth.

Jim smiles and waves his hand. "It's yours, kid. What's your name?"

"Carlos. My mama calls me Carlito."

"Okay, Carlito." Jim tries again. "The policemen--Did you see what happened to them?"

The boy shakes his head and casts his look back to his mother. Her eyes are fluttering and her grasp on the boy tightens desperately. "Carlito?" she moans, fingers twining in his t-shirt.

"_Aquí estoy, mami_." And the boy starts to cry again, burrowing into his mother's arms.

_Good one, Jim. He's four. _He looks over at the old guy, then turns to shout over his shoulder. "Hey!"

A uni stands outside the doorway, talking into his radio, raises one finger - _hold on_. He drops the radio and walks over. "What ya need, Cap'n?"

"Find me someone who can speak Spanish."

"You got him." The clearly non-Latino officer bounces on his heels as he waits.

"Youspeak Spanish…" He eyes up the name tag "…Abramowitz?"

"Sure do, Cap'n. High school 'n' four years at WLVNU."

"Okay, college boy. You wanna take a crack at the old guy? I'm missing two CSIs and if I know those two…I just wanna know if he knows what happened to them."

Ten minutes later - after the flattest, most stilted and most formal Spanish Jim has ever had the misfortune to suffer through - and all he has is what Gramps tried to tell him; the men with guns took the two policemen.

The old man isn't sure of the license plate of his own goddamned truck, and the registration is in the glove compartment. The produce came up from Mexico under less than clear circumstances. He doesn't recall the name of the import company.

So Jim puts out a BOLO on a white panel truck, maybe with the name of a produce or import company on the side or maybe on the door. Maybe. Just his fucking luck the old guy's practically senile to boot.

Then he notices the old guy meeting eyes with the mother. The bus has arrived and a paramedic is working on her shoulder wound and she's at least stopped crying now. But the look that passes between the two of them has Jim's attention.

"Abramowitz, tell the guy you don't believe he doesn't know who took our guys."

"He seems on the up 'n' up, Cap'n," the uni says uncertainly.

"Just tell him," Jim replies tiredly.

The uni shrugs and tells the old man what Jim said. The response is immediate and Jim mentally high fives himself.

"_No, no. No sé nada_." The old man's eyes start shifting all around and he gets excited, nervous.

The woman averts her eyes and pulls her son in tighter.

"Tell him we can protect him, Abramowitz," Jim urges. But the old guy's not having it. And when Jim tries to get the uni to work on the mother, the woman starts crying again and the paramedic flashes Jim a glare. Wraps an arm protectively around the woman and helps her onto the waiting gurney.

"Son of a--" Jim is suddenly tired of dirty, accusing looks. Tired of the articles that still appear at least once a week in the Sun. Cops accused of brutality, cops accused of mistreating suspects, hassling the innocent. Profiling, bribery, and next would probably be shooting unarmed puppies, nuns and children.

He's a good cop. A good fucking man, and he's tired of fighting to prove it. His troubles have been unfairly dumped on the heads of two science geeks supposedly under his protection. Two copologists who should be somewhere in a lab, wielding microscopes and fingerprint brushes, not Glocks. He knows why they entered the fight- knows they were the only ones around willing to catch his back. And now they're in the hands of who the fuck knows, having who the fuck knows what happening to them.

He wheels around, pointing a meaty, still – _damn it -_ shaking finger at the old guy and the woman. "Take the old guy --"

"Name's Chavez. Uh, Hugo Chavez," Abramowitz stutters under Jim's glare.

Jim takes in a breath. "Take Chavez down to the station. Put him in front of a mug book and tell him he's not fucking leaving 'til he picks a face. And get another uni over to the hospital for the woman. When she's out, she's ours. They're both material fucking witnesses and I'm tired of the Sergeant Shultz shit! I want answers!"

The medic, the witnesses, and the uni all stare at him like he's grown a second head.

Jim balls up his fist, takes a deep, shuddering breath, then releases his fingers long enough to loosen his tie and check the button on his jacket. He smoothes a hand over his balding pate, wipes the sweaty palm on his slacks, and leaves the store to make a phone call.

"Gil? Yeah, it's Jim. We have a situation."

* * *

He and Nick both sneak casual glances on their quick trip from back of the truck to the back of the building, gathering any clues as to their new location. The 'shop' turns out to be an upholstery shop; a low-ceilinged, sprawling, cinderblock number tucked into the back corner of a mostly tenantless industrial park.

They'd only driven for about twenty minutes. He figures - _take maybe five of that off for side streets and back alley diversions? Estimating in the average speed?_ He looks southwest and sees a chain link fence knitted silver across the sand. It's pretty far off, but it's definitely the government property line of Nellis Air Force Base. Just before they're both shoved against the back of the building, he sees Nick looking in the same direction.

"Hands flat on the wall. Spread 'em." Rabbit presses against the back of Warrick's head, kicks at the inside of his ankles. "Assume the position!"

He feels the banger's laughter on his neck.

"Man, I always wanted to say that to a cop."

Next to him, Nick's getting the same treatment from Jeff, if not a little rougher.

Warrick wants to ask what the plan is, wants to ask it not just of their captors, but of Nick. He stays silent, though, as the punk's hands brisk unkindly around his waist, over his legs and ankles. He's pretty sure these guys would have let the woman die, bleed out, if they'd taken her. Knows they made the right choice. The only choice, really. God knows what would have happened to the kid; dumped somewhere, scared and alone, probably. Motherless.

Their 'cop' status may keep them alive.

Or might just get them killed.

A service door opens beside the larger bay door as the pat down winds up. They're pulled from their positions against the wall as two more bangers join the ball.

Warrick sees the smear of red left on the wall by Nick's face, and rushes to catch his partner's eye. He reads a quick, _'Yeah, he's bein' a dick, but I'm fine'_ before Nick's pushed down to his knees, hands on his head. Then Warrick's turned, face away, and pushed to his, as well.

The whistle starts high, piercingly, and gradually drops in octaves; the straight-to-hell flight of a missile. "_Pelon_. Alex is flipping, man! You lost your mind, Jeff."

Warrick can't see New Guy, but he likes him. If only because New Guy is giving Jeff shit.

"Where's that little fucker, Cohete?" asks Jeff.

His voice is closer, farther from Nick, and that gives Warrick a bit of relief. But there's still a lot of energy coming off the wanna-be leader, and New Guy is aggravating it.

"I wouldn't worry 'bout Cohete, man. I'd worry about _el jefe_."

"I'd worry 'bout _tu boca_ if I was you right now, _ese_. That, and stepping off."

Conejo hisses out a chuckle next to Warrick, and the CSI hopes his partner is taking notes on the hierarchy reveals, too.

"'Sides," says Jeff, voice like cool steel, "I can handle Alex."

New guy clucks his tongue and sing-songs in a placating tone, "Okay, man. I'm just trying to give you a heads up. _Mantén los ojos abiertos_, _pelon_. And until you get everything straight with these _cerdos_? I'd leave the shit with Cohete alone, man."

Warrick hears the gravel rumble; someone's stepping up to someone.

"Damn, _ese_. I knew there was a reason I hated the whitemeat cop; he reminds me of you. Always wanting to give advice," hisses Jeff. "Why don't you look at his face right now – _pelon_ – and see where it got him."

There's a moment of complete silence, and then soft-lobbed laughing that's clearly New Guy's capitulation.

The gambler's mask Warrick's worked years to perfect betrays him with a twist at the corner of his mouth. Two very bad things have just become clear: no one wants to push Jeff to his limit; and the violent, possibly unstable guy is Nick's new worst enemy.

"That's cool, Jeff. _Mira_. Me and Joker, we're gonna go dump the truck for you. Get it off your hands," says New Guy.

"Yeah. You do that. I want it gone, and I want it clean."

"Okay _pues_, man. Consider it done. _Las llaves_?

Warrick hears the jangle of keys slapping palm, and two sets of footsteps kick across the lot. He's pulled to his feet as the truck rumbles to life.

"Let's go, cop."

He hears a grunt from Nick, then the scuff of his boots in the gravel. They're both propelled forward through the service door into the shop.

* * *

"For the last time, I don't care if he's going to Desert Palms! He's goin' cuffed!"

Jim stabs a finger at the blanket clad form of Baggy, strapped on his stomach to a stretcher being loaded into the back of an ambulance.

The uni nearest the rig glares balefully at the medic who hesitates only a moment then lifts the banger's non-IV punctured hand a few inches. The patrolman steps up and snaps a silver bracelet around Baggy's wrist, securing the other end to the stretcher frame. The wounded man has lost a lot of blood but still manages the strength to test the connection, rattling the cuffs loudly, letting out a string of Spanish curses.

"Yeah, I hear ya," Jim mutters, then waves off the medics to transport.

A Lab issued Denali pulls up, lights flashing, no siren. Jim peers thru the dust-coated windshield, noting the two forms emerging from the SUV.

Gil gets out slowly, methodically. He opens the back door and begins to put together bags of equipment. Catherine dispenses with procedure and comes stalking over quickly, her impatience tripping her up, her heels catching in the rough grooves of the patchwork pavement.

"Are you okay, Jim?" she asks, rubbing her hand on his shoulder.

He's not in the mood for it, regardless of her intentions. He shakes off the hand, kind of abruptly he knows, but then curls a small smile onto his face for her. "I'm fine, Catherine, thanks for asking."

She swivels her head, taking in the scene around them. Two pools of blood, more bullets and shell casings than can be absorbed. And bullet holes riddle practically everything in sight: store fronts, the paper box, most of the vehicles on the street.

"My God," she breathes. "It's like October all over again."

Jim winces at her comparison. "Yeah, another visit with IAB. Reminds me I gotta schedule my annual proctology exam."

Catherine smiles wanly. Gil joins them, heavy satchel in each hand. Ready for work.

"Jim," Gil says succinctly with a nod of greeting. "Tell me what happened."

"Started off as a normal run. Dead female - a teenager, apparently pregnant. David did his thing, found out the belly was a fake."

"Where have we seen that before?" Catherine breaks in dryly.

"Yeah. So Stokes and Brown had the scene. David had just removed the vic when we heard gunfire. I radioed in, told the guys to stay put…" He sees Gil take in a breath to respond and holds up a hand. "They only came when no one else did. I'm tellin' you Gil, it was me in the middle of the Hatfields and McCoys, South of the Border style. Bullets were flying everywhere."

He stops and draws in a breath, rolls his head on his neck, exhaling slowly. "I radioed in again. No love. Meantime a civilian, a young mother, was hit. And her kid…" He pauses, licks dry lips and chuckles to himself in disbelief that the kid hadn't been hit. "The kid, four year old, I think…he, uh…he broke away from his mom, panicked, you know?" He chuffs out another small laugh. "Not that I didn't, but at least I had the sense to stay put."

He pulls in another quick breath, his heart picking up pace with the remembered action.

"Anyway, the kid ran out into the middle of all this shit. Next thing I know, our two heroes show up. They break cover, grab the mom and kid, and make for the storefront." His hand stirs the air vaguely in the direction where he last saw the CSIs.

"Other than that, how was the play, Mrs. Lincoln?" Gil asks calmly.

Jim barks out a laugh and wipes distractedly at the sweat-soaked nape of his neck. A cool breeze blows across it and he shrugs his shoulders inside his suit coat, trying to push his collar up higher. "By the time the cavalry shows up, all the Indians have headed back into the hills. Found the mom and the kid in the store. There's a guy behind the counter - the owner or the help - not sure. And an old guy who was delivering produce to the market. Best I can get outta them is that some tattooed muscle was in the shop. Saw their opportunity for some hostages with shields, and took off with our guys."

"They had front row seats, Jim," Catherine huffs incredulously. "That's the best you can get?"

"They're all doin' impressions of Easter Island statues in there, Cath. Whoever's got Brown and Stokes must be scarier than me."

Gil hefts his bags up an inch and lets them drop at his sides. He curls a half smile on to his face. "Well, if they're not talking, perhaps we can see if the scene tells us something."

* * *

He and Warrick are walked through the shop, twisted around work tables topped with orphaned auto seats in different stages of tear-down and rebuild. The place is set up for business; they probably even do some actual upholstery work. Nick knows most gangs of this size and presence are smart enough to have a line of money coming from some legitimate source, if for no other reason than to keep the police a little less curious.

They pass through to a smaller back area that's been decked out like a loft apartment. Headquarters; the bad guys' lair. It pisses him off just a bit that they have a nicer TV than his. He and Rick are forced into chairs a few feet apart from each other. When his hands start to slip from his head, they're grabbed roughly and shoved back in place.

"Keep 'em there, cop. 'Til I tell you different."

"Sorry, man. Arms are just gettin' a little numb."

There's the metallic slide and cock of a gun, and Nick feels cool steel against the nape of his neck.

"Man, if you don't shut the fuck up, I'm gonna make you numb from the neck, up."

"Nick, man," Warrick warns, low.

"Conejo. Go get some Zips and something to gag these _hijos de puta_. I can't think with all their fucking talking!"

The last word is harshly yelled in Nick's ear, and he flinches in response; pulls his head slightly to the side and feels the chill of the muzzle stutter over the crest of his spine.

Rabbit snickers and hops from the room, sliding his gun into the back of his shorts as he leaves.

Jeff slips around in front of both of them, pulling over another chair. He spins it backwards and sits down, exhaling a huge breath. Everything about him seems to relax except the arm holding the gun. He juts his chin at Warrick. "You gotta learn to regulate your posse, man." Jeff's head dips toward Nick. "Teach that one to be quiet."

"'S not my posse. He's my partner."

"Either way, _hermano_. His mouth's getting you both in trouble."

Rabbit skitters back in. Nick's hands are pulled behind his back and encircled by plastic Zip-ties; tightly and effectively cuffed to the spindles of the wooden chair. The banger moves to do the same to Warrick after tossing Jeff two blue bandannas.

Jeff snatches them from the air and slips his gun into his waistband. He rises and glides behind Nick, twirling one of the squares like a locker room towel. He snaps the snake of coiled cloth in front of Nick's face and leans in close to his ear, hard chin jutting overtop Nick's hiked shoulders "_Abre_, cop."

_Fuck me._ He drops his jaw an inch, and the bandanna is forced the rest of the way past his reluctant lips. The blue cotton tastes sharp; like limed corn. He coughs around the sensation of it on his tongue, scent filling his nose.

Jeff hitches the gag tighter than he needs to and the corners of Nick's mouth are yanked back in a carnival grimace.

His upper lip splits open a littler farther; the warm copper of blood rushes over his exposed gums, through his teeth, smearing on the roof of his mouth. His left cheek is pulled up even higher, effectively closing off the vision in his already swollen eye. He huffs an angry _'Shit!'_ that comes out as nothing more threatening than a push of breath. His head pops back when Jeff tugs on the double knot at the bottom of his skull.

"Not so much to say now, eh, cop?"

Nick doesn't give him the satisfaction of any kind of response. _Bound and gagged?_ Yeah, their chances are drying up like rain in the desert. And his guilt meter's starting to register the accusation Jeff dropped; that it's him and his mouth getting WARRICK in trouble, too. Mostly because it's true_. So, just shut the hell up, and keep your partner safe._

He's fighting the drums in his head, trying to process the back-and-forth Spanish nattering between Jeff and Rabbit, when the conversation stops abruptly. He cranes his neck to get his right eye on Warrick, praying nothing's happened.

His partner's fine – aside from the obvious – and lets Nick know with darting eyes and a subtle half-nod that the brick through the window of conversation is behind them, to the right.

"Hey, Alex," says Jeff.

Nick can't make out any features; the doorway is too far behind him, and the edges of his vision are blurry and grey. But someone tall and lean is standing in the threshold, posture like a soldier. He cranes a little more, and the short hairs on the back of his neck pinch where they're caught in the knot of the gag.

"What the fuck were you thinking?"

Nick's surprised by the calm in the man's voice; surprised it can exist with all the pronouncement and malice weaving through it. _No more questioning who's the boss._

"I guess I was thinking, '_Man, I wish Alex's little cousin hadn't taken off in the car, stranding me, as soon as heard a couple fucking bullets pop'_."

_Perfect. Out of the middle of one gang war, into another._ Because this kind of personality conflict, this kind of antler-smashing, alpha-male, line-of-piss-in-the-sand-crossing bullshit ALWAYS comes to a head.

The man steps into the room, arms crossed over his narrow chest. He's tatted like Jeff and the others, but not as heavily so. At least, not his face. As the gang leader crosses and comes to stand in front of them, Nick can see the three blue-black tear drops tattooed to fall over his right cheekbone.

Alex's eyes crawl intently over Nick and Warrick, then shift up and behind them. His head shakes lightly left and right. "We don't call him Cohete for nothing, Jeff. You know that. This is on you, _pelon_."

"Well, sometimes rockets explode."

"And sometimes people make stupid mistakes. Like this _mierda_ right here." An inked arm leaves his chest and floats in front of Nick and Warrick. "_¿Qué te pasó por la cabeza_, _hermano_?"

"My head was in getting out of that _mercado_ alive."

"And kidnapping two cops was the only way to do that?"

"Hey! If that _mariposón de tu primo_? If he didn't take off? We would have been out of there. Me, Conejo, and Roman. The way I see it, this is all Cohete's fault."

Alex drops his look to the floor, his head shaking sadly back and forth.

Nick sees the muscles of the man's jaw pulse and jump as his head rises and his eyes bore into what he knows are Jeff's, behind him.

"And this is just another case, Jeff," says Alex, "Of you and me not seeing things the same way."


	4. Cosecha

**Disclaimer:** While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving.

**SPOILERS/Timeline:** Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'

**UNDYING GRATITUDE:** To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR - **Cosecha**

"I've got blood," Gil announces to no one in particular. He holds a machete in one hand, the rust-pitted steel stained with spots of brown along its broad blade. His other hand holds a swab with the telltale color soaked into the cotton.

"I was here when the buses took all the vics away," Jim says as he walks closer. "Mom had a single GSW, old guy had a mouse forming on his one eye. Kid was clean. And the decedent was killed with a different kind of metal," he adds, making a gun out of his thumb and index finger. "Lead."

"It could be old," Catherine offers, rising from a crouch behind the register counter.

Gil wipes a latex covered finger through the brown, raising the digit to show the blood is still tacky.

"Not old enough," Gil says with a sigh, bending stiffly to rifle through his kit. After watching him consider and dismiss several items Catherine grabs up something from behind the counter and walks over. Gil looks up to see her approaching with a large brown paper grocery bag.

"Couldn't find anything big enough," he says, confirming her assessment of his need. "Thanks." He shakes open the bag, dropping in the machete across the diagonal. The weapon still takes up the entire space but after some fancy folding he manages to get the entire thing ensconced in brown paper.

Catherine takes the bag from his hand gently. "I'll make sure Wendy gets this. I've got that uni, Abramowitz, waiting with a cruiser full of evidence to take back."

"Why don't you go back with him, Cath?" Gil sighs out as he takes in the _mercado _around them. Every surface is covered in black dusting powder and they have boxes already filled with potential clues. Shoe print lifts, swabs, and roll upon roll of film.

They had started on the outer fringes of the store and wound their way in a circle to the middle. Some of the prints could have been there from the time the store opened, the counter alone yielding hundreds of potentials, all smearing and clouding the glass case holding lottery tickets, phone cards, and smoke paraphernalia.

Catherine shakes her head. "No, we still have the back of the store to check out. Unis swept it pretty good, no sign of our guys or any other vics, but if they left, and Jim didn't see them come out the front…"

Gil nods tiredly. "I think we've beat this dead horse into the ground."

Catherine steps outside to get her courier packing up his cruiser and Gil picks up his leather satchel and heads to the back of the store.

To his left there's a small back office with a rolling chair snugged up against a metal desk holding several dirty Styrofoam coffee cups, a stack of paperwork, and an adding machine. There are a few state mandated licenses stuck to the tobacco stained walls with colored tacks along with posters from OSHA, INS, IRS and a few other alphabet government agencies.

He's about to enter the dingy space when he sees a doorway to his right. A brown smear about hip high mars the doorframe, almost hidden in shadows cast by a single bare bulb overhead.

His swab is automatically soaked in a solution of phenolphthalein and hydrogen peroxide, and he dabs gently at the stain. Another small squirt from the dropper and the tip changes to bright magenta. Blood.

Gil squints, then shakes his head angrily at the inadequate light and his absent-mindedness. He pulls his Maglite free from his hip and shines it on the brown smear, the new illumination picking up the outline that at first appeared an amorphous stain. It is clearly four fingers dragging from inside the store to disappear around the corner behind the closed door. He gives the door a push on the bar and it swings open, out to the alleyway.

Dumpsters - overflowing with rotting vegetables and fruits, empty wooden boxes piled head high - run alongside the _mercado_'s outside wall.

A strong breeze stirs a mixture of newspaper, snack wrappers, and girl-for-hire flyers into a mini-cyclone in one corner of the alley. A sheet of paper showing a vacuous blonde - mouth in a highly sexualized 'oh' , legs spread wide, a red heart barely covering the money shot - blows by him and stays pinned to the street while others continue to drift lazily.

Curious as to the reason, Gil places one bag in the doorway, holding the steel door open, and approaches the flyer. Squats down with another crack of tired knees, and plucks it up with Latex-covered fingers. Red liquid is already making a quarter sized stain when he lifts it from the ground, pulling as something sticky releases.

On the ground is a glob of blood, mucous and spittle. Gil doesn't hesitate. He pokes a gloved finger at the blob. It's still wet. Fresher than the blood he's found previously, but also kept moistened by the jellyfish of mucous.

Pulling out an index card from his vest pocket he scrapes up the find into a plastic baggie, then stays squatting, staring at the location of the evidence. A set of fresh tire tracks has disturbed the dusty alley.

He holds the baggie up closer, marveling at the discovery of something so innocuous. He has no idea who left it, but he has a sneaking suspicion only one of two men he's interested in finding would know to leave this. He smiles softly to himself in mixed concern, admiration, and the small joy he allows himself when figuring out a puzzle. "They're leaving bloody breadcrumbs."

* * *

Warrick's favorite new player by far is Alex. _Man is definitely in charge._ And smart. Which makes him just as much a threat, if not more so, than Jeff. Only good thing so far is, Alex isn't thrilled to have a couple of shanghai'd CSIs in his shop. And would probably be less pleased with two dead CSIs. _So maybe odds are lookin' a little brighter_. 

Warrick can sense Rabbit's nervous jittering behind him and is eternally grateful when Alex sends away the wiry banger, suggests he get lost for a bit. Rick catalogs the way Jeff stiffens at the dismissal; he obviously doesn't like losing an ally.

"Jeff, why don't you go to the office. Call Freddy and Joker and see how the truck dump is going."

Jeff doesn't move for a second. Neither does Alex.

"_Hablamos después_," Alex calls as Jeff storms across the room. "I definitely want to hear your side of the story."

Whatever Jeff's response, it's in Spanish and quiet. But Warrick can tell by the look on Alex's face; it's a smartass remark and doesn't sit well with the man.

Alex stands before them silently for a full minute. Like he's deciphering, thinking; working out the moves before he makes them. He steps behind Nick, and Warrick watches him work the knot of the bandanna, removing it from his partner's mouth.

Nick's tongue darts forward, wetting his dry lips, and then his cheeks draw in, jaw working up and down. He leans to the side, away from Alex and Warrick, and spits a glob of red-tinged saliva onto the floor.

Rick's anger flares momentarily, and then the gag is falling away from his mouth, as well.

Alex comes round in front of them again and rights the chair Jeff had occupied before. The gang leader sits down, feet planted shoulder-width apart, and rests his forearms on his knees. His fingers knit together; slender, tattooed digits - like spider's legs - tapping a beat on the backs of his hands. He looks up at Nick. "What's your name?"

"Nick Stokes."

"And you?" Alex asks, turning to Warrick.

"Warrick Brown."

Alex nods, filing the information. "You probably won't believe me, but I'm as unhappy about this situation as you are."

Warrick and Nick exchange a quick look and decide to stay quiet.

"I'm not really interested in having the Las Vegas Police Department breathing down my neck." Alex straightens in the chair, motioning at Nick's face with his hand. "Jeff do that to you?"

Nick nods, and Warrick holds his breath, hoping his partner can hold his tongue and his anger. Nick's quicker to light up than he used to be, and Warrick doesn't want his friend buying anymore trouble. For either of them.

"Jeff uses his fists a lot better than he uses his brain," sighs Alex, wiping a hand over his mouth. "I've been trying to teach him to control his temper. But I can't always be there, you know? Hard to be everywhere at once. As cops, I'm sure you can understand that."

"We're actually CSIs. Crime scene investigators, not cops," says Nick.

"Fingerprint guys? Like on TV?"

Nick chuffs bitter laughter. "Yeah. Fingerprint guys."

"But you still work for the cops."

"We were processing a crime scene a couple of streets over when we heard the gunshots," says Nick. "We only got involved because the detective we were with got caught in the crossfire. Just trying to protect one of our own. I'm sure you can understand that."

Warrick winces lightly when his partner tosses the gang leader's words back at him. Nick's walking that fine line between making nice and making more enemies. So Rick's relieved and surprised when Alex's smile plays kind, even if it is just sham and show.

"I understand being in the wrong place at the wrong time, believe me, I do. But that doesn't change where we both are right now, does it?" asks the young man.

"Just sayin', there's gotta be a solution to this. One that ends with me and my partner, here, walkin' away." Warrick grimaces at his own choice of words. _Maybe I oughtta be the one shuttin' the hell up, stop worryin' about Nick…_

"The crime scene you were…processing. What was it?"

Warrick glances at his partner. Alex probably already knows, so how much do they share? How much do they cooperate without blowing the case? How much do they hold back without making things worse for themselves?

"It was a murder," says Nick.

_A'ight, bro. How much more?_

"What kind of murder?" Alex asks.

_The kind where somebody almost gets beheaded_, he nearly says out loud. But Nick beats him to the verbal punch.

"A young woman was killed."

"How?"

But Nick doesn't follow it up. Warrick keeps quiet, too.

Alex laughs and shakes his head, smile more genuine this time. "Mr. Stokes, Mr. Brown…I've been very nice up to this point."

It unsettles Warrick that this man – this KID, really – is likely only separated by degrees from Graciela Flores's murder. _And here he is, grinning like a depraved senior photo._

"So, I'm going to ask again. How was this young woman killed?"

He and his partner are both done with the interrogation. Enough's been said. _And it ain't likely we're gettin' lawyers any time soon_. So Warrick has to pinch his eyes closed and bite down on his own cheek when he hears Nick, drawl thick as dirt.

"To give you details of the crime scene would compromise a murder investigation."

Alex gives Nick a smile; tight and sharp and shiny as a blade. "You know? All the things that I can tell Jeff hates in you: pride, honor, bravery? These are the same things I like about you. They're…admirable."

When Alex leans closer to Nick, Warrick watches carefully; doesn't miss the jumping muscles in his partner's arm from the clenching and unclenching of his fists.

"But these qualities…they make business difficult for me. Which is why I have people like Jeff." Alex hangs the threat in the air between them and then locks up still. Doesn't blink. Just holds Nick's eyes for a good five seconds.

_Shit, Nick…Keep it together._

"You know where I'm from, Mr. Stokes? El Salvador. _Salvadoreño_. I learned early on the…effectiveness of violence."

Nick's eyebrows pull up a fraction.

_Aw, come on, boss…_

"S been my experience violence never really pays off in the long run," Nick drawls.

Warrick watches as Nick's tongue slides from his mouth to touch lightly against his split upper lip. The action acts as an ellipses to the statement, implying a model for the situation.

Alex chuckles lightly and shakes his head. "Well, Mr. Stokes; there's your long run and my long run."

Nick's head pulls back a centimeter when Alex brings his face down level.

Alex's arms are tugged across his chest, a silver milagro pendant – the flaming heart - swings back and forth from a black cord around his neck. "At age eleven, guerilla soldiers slaughtered my parents, put a machete in my hand, and taught me how to be a sprinter."

Nick flinches a hair's breadth.

Alex reads it as a shiver of horror, but Warrick knows his partner. And he knows that flinch; Nick just latched on to a good piece of evidence. Like a hound on a fox.

* * *

"I'm sorry, sir," the nurse says for the third time, but her voice says she's really not. "The patient is still in recovery and cannot be disturbed." She smoothes a hand over a hanging badge that reads Virginia Pulaski, her stern face captured 2x2 below it. 

"Well the _patient,"_ Jim says, impatiently, "Is a possible witness to the kidnapping of two LVPD officers. He's currently enjoying a morphine high courtesy of my tax dollars. Unless he had a Blue Cross card on him?" He nods at the evil glare he receives. "Yeah, didn't think so. Maybe a library card? No?"

"A patient's ability or inability to pay is not a bearing on the care he rec--"

Jim holds up a pissed off hand. "Yeah, I know, I can read the signs in the ER. I'm sure Señor Baggy Pants is getting world-class care. If he's outta surgery then he's mine. I'll wait at his bedside. Hold his hand even, if you like. Just to make sure he has a friendly face to wake up to," he adds, forcing an innocent smile onto his cherubic face.

Another nurse, this one twenty years younger looking, emerges from the recovery room behind them, a dark wet stain on her light pink scrubs, and an angry scowl on her face. As she nears them, Jim catches a whiff of urine, and the nurse's voice muttering obscenities.

"He's awake, Ginny," the young nurse spits out. "First thing the little shit does is pull his Foley."

The older nurse sighs and shakes her head. "You get a new one in?"

"He's still prone, after the surgery. Gonna hafta wait 'til we get him flipped, I think. I'll have Luke gimme a hand rolling him later."

Ginny accepts this with another sharp nod. "You want help cleaning up?"

"Nope," the younger nurse says as she passes. "He can lay in his own piss for a while. At least 'til I get some clean scrubs on."

"I'd be glad to help if you have a… recalcitrant patient," Jim says with as sincere a look as he can muster. "I have a forceful personality."

Ginny eyes him up and down, then wrinkles her nose at the lingering odor of urine left in the young nurse's wake. "Sure, why the hell not?"

Jim does the gentlemanly 'after you' gesture with his hand and Ginny snorts. "Chicken."

"Hey, I like this suit," is all Jim responds.

"What, Sears won't have another in stock?" Ginny bites back.

Ooh, he likes her.

They enter the room and the smell of piss hits him full force, mixed with alcohol, bleach, and the unmistakable scent of fear.

Baggy lays on his stomach, clambering feebly at the bed rails. His hospital gown is barely on and one bare, pimply ass cheek sticks out next to its heavily bandaged neighbor. He sees them enter the room and strains upward on his elbows.

"Yo, bitch," seems to be the extent of his English mastery. The rest is a litany of slurred Spanish but Jim gets the gist. He's pissed, sick, and hurting. And petrified. His eyes are bloodshot saucers, brown irises darting between Jim and Ginny, determining who's the greater threat. He figures out pretty quickly that it's Jim.

And somehow, as he sizes them up, he knows immediately, _instinctively,_ that Jim's a cop. And he'd always really likedthis suit. Baggy tries to work up a mouthful of spit in his anesthesia dry mouth, fails miserably, and collapses back onto the bed, crying and cursing in Spanish.

"Don't suppose you know any _Español_?" Jim asks sideways of the nurse.

She snorts again. "Barely enough to say stick out yer tongue or roll over, depending on my mood."

Oh, he REALLY likes her.

"You have any translators on staff handy?" he sighs. He should have brought Abramowitz with him.

A knock on the door behind him brings an angel in an ugly brown suit. Actually…it kind of looks like his. Damn. He's giving the suit to Goodwill when he gets home.

"Sam, you are a welcome sight, my friend," he says with a broad grin and an extended hand. Sam sticks his equally meaty paw into Jim's grasp and pumps it amiably.

"Heard you snagged a baddy from my neck of the woods," Sam says with a nod at the injured banger. "Not many of my brethren come equipped with much beyond the mother tongue, so I figured you could use a hand."

He stops and cocks his head, staring at the kid in the bed. "Nice ink. Think you got yourself a real nasty one here, Jim."

"He's not so tough, Sam." He turns and grins ferally at the injured thug. "I'm the one that popped a cap in his ass."

"Good aim, Jim. Not much of a target," Sam says with a smile and a nod at the scrawny butt on display in the bed.

He bends slightly and pulls the gown open further, exposing more of the heavily tattooed back. A stylized sun in dark blue surrounding the roman letters XIII covers one shoulder. The other acne-speckled blade carries a beetle, similar to a scarab. It's in dark blue as well, but more care was taken with it, filling in its boundaries with a golden green color. Underneath it scrawls the word "Bichito".

The banger in the bed seems not to care about the scrutiny. In fact, a small sickly smile forms on his face, the silver foil of third-world dentistry framing his front teeth.

"_¿Así te llamas?_ Bichito? Little Bug, huh? _Te queda. Para una peste enana y ñanga como tú_," Sam says, leaning back with his arms folded comfortably.

"_Bichito puede hacer mucho daño_," Bichito says with a broader, icier grin.

Sam smirks at the banger, rolls his eyes at Jim. "Says a little bug can do a lot of damage."

"Is that right?" asks the detective, not impressed at all.

Bichito's bravado is stolen from him as he suddenly winces and writhes in the bed, the smile twisting into a grimace. He cranes his head a few inches off the pillow and glares at Ginny. "C'mon, bitch. _Me tienes que dar algo_, bitch. _Me siento mal, me dispararon_, bitch!"

Jim shoots out a hand and whumps the kid on the top of his head. Bichito whips his head around and makes an admirable attempt to rise up from the bed before collapsing again. _"¿Por qué puta hiciste eso, cerdo?"_

"The nurse's name is Ginny. You can call her Nurse, or ma'am. She's the one with any pain meds and dry sheets in your future, so I suggest you comport yourself accordingly." He doesn't break his gaze with Bichito's surly look as Sam patiently translates Jim's instructions.

When Sam's done, Bichito sullenly lowers his eyes, shifting on the urine-soaked sheets beneath him.

"That's better," Jim mutters, then takes out his small leather casebook and a pencil nub. "Now that we have that straightened out, we have some questions for you."

Sam relaxes further, searching for and finding a dry spot on the bed. He lowers himself onto the mattress and gets comfortable. He nods at Jim; more than willing to provide translation while the Captain takes the reins for a bit.

* * *

"What the hell's goin' on, bro?" 

Warrick glances quickly between Nick and the small group of men talking in low voices at the far side of the room.

Nick's face is a grimace, and he curses quietly around an exhaled breath. "Sonuvuhbitch."

"You wanna clue me in, here?"

"You're not gonna like it."

"'Cause there's so much about this situation that's good."

Nick winces at the thick-tongued staccato rebuke, and an apologetic shadow crawls over his face. "Remember I said Sam and me were talkin' gang stuff a while back?"

"Yeah."

"He kept referin' to a specific gang. One of the MS-13 sets that rolls in the neighborhood right about where our esteemed hosts picked us up."

"So you think you know these guys?"

"Yeah."

"And why is that makin' my gut sink, Stokes?"

The corners of Nick's mouth curl up in frustration. "Vega said this particular clan – call themselves the Sol Set--"

"Puesta del Sol?" Warrick verifies.

"Yeah. Guess their leader is a no-name. Head of the fastest growing clique in Las Vegas. Gang squad figures them in eleven murders in the past two years, maybe three mil' in drug money in the past year alone, and our boys can't put a finger on the mastermind."

Warrick's eyes travel from Nick to where Alex, Jeff, and two other others talk heatedly in Spanish. The words are meaningless to him, but the inflection and finger-pointing makes the fiery emotions plain. "You figure Alex as the mystery man?"

Nick's head dips toward his shoulder. "You heard 'im yourself, Rick. Up here from El Salvador, smart and careful enough to stay below the radar. Not get his hands or fingerprints on anything that'll leave a trail…"

Voices carry across the room and Nick cocks his head; strains to listen.

"_No sólo secuestraron a dos policías de Las Vegas, sino que además los trajeron para acá. Y encima uno es ese policía que enterraron vivo el año pasado_."

Red rises in Nick's cheeks. They know who he is. _Never gonna be able to let it go…_

"_No se te ocurrió que iba a atraer a los periodistas. Que va a hacer que los policías aparezcan como moscas. ¿No pensaste en la cantidad de pisto y problemas que tu estupidez me va a costar?"_

Alex is bitching about all the problems and money Jeff's move is going to cost them, but Nick's more amazed – like he has been every single time – when all his senses conspire to put him back in that box. Back at that desperation. His breathing speeds up a fraction and he fights to even it out. "Rick, man. They know who I am…"

"I'm not gettin' you."

"The Gordon thing."

Warrick's face flashes momentary doom before he can pull it back, and Nick winces inwardly.

"_Averigua qué saben y cómo, pelón. Ahora_." Alex and the other two men storm off leaving Jeff to quietly seethe.

"A'ight, boss. It's all good. They don't know we know that, right?"

"I think Jeff just got the okay to go medieval on our asses." Nick hates the mix of fear and protectiveness that makes camp on Warrick's face.

"Just keep it together, bro. Keep playin' it cool."

"Right," Nick agrees, nodding more times than he needs to; tight ups and downs as if he's trying to assure them both.

* * *

To be continued... 


	5. Hambre

**Disclaimer:** While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving.

**SPOILERS/Timeline:** Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'

**UNDYING GRATITUDE:** To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.

* * *

Chapter 5 - Hambre

Brass watches as Bichito darts a look at Sam and scoots over on the bed. The wounded banger clearly doesn't like the fact that the cop who'd cooed to him in Spanish is turning things over to Jim. The seasoned detective can practically see the kid drawing inward, coiling tightly - like a cornered animal. Jim tries for nearly five minutes, through Sam, to get the basic info down; name, address, INS status.

Bichito clamps his lips shut, although whether it's out of actual fear that words might slip past, or against the nausea that greens his tan skin is anyone's guess.

Jim finally shakes his head and closes his notebook. From his jacket he pulls a stamp pad and a print card that's curled on the corners from the ride in his pocket. He pries open the banger's uncooperative fist, inks his fingers one by one, and rolls them across the appropriate squares on the card.

As the print stuff is pocketed, Bichito tries to yank his free hand away from the detective, but Vega is already expecting it; has one cuff already in hand, and smoothly snaps it around the kid's bony wrist. The other bracelet gets hooked around the bed frame.

"Thanks, Sam," says Brass, wiping ink smears from his hand with a tissue from the box by the bed.

"No problem, my friend."

Sam's been silent but for the brief translations of Jim's questions. During the periods of quiet that followed each of them he appeared to be reading the tats on the banger's back. Jotting down details in his own casebook.

Before Sam can retrieve the notepad from where it's been laid on the bed, Jim leans over to see what he's been doodling. They're pretty damn good sketches of the tattoos and their locations, carefully mapped out.

Sam sees Jim's curious look and points his pen to Bichito's back.

Jim follows the Bic as it singles out each inked work clockwise, starting with the green beetle on the right shoulder.

"Bichito's his tag, his gang name. Means 'Little Bug'." The pen moves down to a poorly rendered naked woman; head too big for her body and proportions so badly skewed if she'd been real she'd have fallen flat on her face upon standing. "This probably stands for our boy's wishful thinking."

Jim smiles and nods, the corners of his mouth pulling up impishly. _"¿Tu madre?"_ His smile broadens into a grateful grin at Bichito's reaction.

The thug thrashes, rattling the cuffs and the IV stand.

"Tell me more, Professor Vega."

Sam pokes his pen at a crudely executed gun, then a series of 13's done in Roman and Anglo numerals. A pair of dice showing snake eyes. In the middle of the banger's back is a heart, pierced by a crown of thorns, surrounded by a halo of flames. "Sacred heart," Sam supplies. "Our boy fancies himself a good Catholic. He just picks an' chooses which of the Ten Commandments he likes."

The pen travels up Bichito's left side, and Jim suddenly flashes to a butcher's diagram showing the different cuts of meat on a side of beef.

"This one here's the real interesting one. And probably the reason he's keeping his mouth shut. Sol Set."

When Sam doesn't elaborate, Jim lifts his eyebrows and sighs. "Humor an old un-hip cop not down with the homeys, huh?"

Sam smiles and chuckles and then taps the pen against Bichito's left shoulder blade. "Number thirteen in a sun is the sign for the Sol Set. As in Puesta del Sol. A division of MS-13 running the blocks from 37th to Amarillo; basically the length of Puesta del Sol."

"He was grabbed outside a _mercado_ on del Sol," Jim confirms.

"He looks pretty young," Sam muses, studying the kid's face.

Bichito rockets his eyes back and forth between the two cops like he's watching a soccer match.

"Betcha he's just in from El Salvador."

The kid flinches and looks away.

He may have missed ninety-five percent of the conversation, but Jim can tell the banger's picking up on the keywords. "You've worked plenty with these humps," he grunts with a sigh. "We got any leverage with 'em?"

"Nah. We ship 'em home and they find their way back. Like ants. Seal up one crack and they'll find a way back in. I, uh, heard about Stokes and Brown. I know you were hoping this guy might help, but I just don't see it happening. He's fresh, probably not too high up the food chain. His tats don't reference any kills. And with a name like 'Little Bug', he's probably in on someone else's rep. Brother or cousin."

Jim nods in understanding. Gives a small smile to Ginny as he reaches into his suit coat pocket. "Here," he says, handing her a business card. "This bug gives you any more problems, you tell him I'll be by to squash him."

She studies the small white rectangle, Jim's number embossed below his official title. Her eyebrows rise a little, impressed. "Captain, huh?"

"Yeah," he chuffs with a laugh. "I'll flaunt it if it means I can call you some time."

She doesn't answer but gives him a small nod. Then it's all back to business and she's got one hand on the privacy curtain. "I think this nice young man is ready for a new Foley."

Jim wouldn't trade places with the kid for all the tea in China.

* * *

They both figure either Nick's Spanish skills aren't all they're cracked up to be, or Alex schooled Jeff in the manners department. Because when the up-to-now fuck of a punk comes back to the room where they're being held, he's carrying three plates and three beers. 

The two CSIs eye each other, the food, Jeff. Nick's stomach growls, loud and violent, and whether this is tactic or a peace offering doesn't seem like it's going to come into the equation if the food is offered.

Jeff places the plates and drinks on the table and pulls it over in front of the boys. He grabs the spare chair and scoots in across from them. All gentle smiles and controlled muscles. "You _cerdos_ ever have Salvadoran?"

Neither Nick nor Warrick respond.

Jeff cracks open one of the beers and takes a drink. "We got homemade _pupusas_, here. _Frijoles_. Nice cold _cerveza_…" Nick's stomach rumbles like thunder, and Jeff smiles. He addresses Warrick but points at Nick. "Your partner knows. This is good shit, man. The cheeseburger of El Salvador. The Central American Dodger dog."

"What's the catch?" Nick asks, much to Warrick's amazement. But Nick's stomach is still mewling, and Warrick's suddenly answers like a call to war.

Jeff's smile increases, the blue lines of the tattoos on his cheeks folding in on each other, distorting the designs there. "No catch, _hermanos_. Just want you to keep up your strength. We got a lot of talking to do."

Rabbit joins them, a beer in one hand, the other wrapped around one of the stuffed corncakes; folded over like a taco and dripping red salsa and the pickled cabbage called _curtido_.

Jeff pops open the two remaining beers and sets them in front of the CSIs. "A nice beer to relax you after a hard day. Something in your belly to keep you strong." The words are delivered with a promise of a long night.

Nick and Warrick watch as Jeff carefully arranges the plates in front of each of them.

The food smells amazing and Nick's mouth waters reflexively. He sneaks a glance at Warrick who looks nearly as hungry. _Coupla Pavlov's dogs. Maybe Jeff's not so stupid after all._ But neither is Nick, no matter how hungry he is. He juts his chin toward the plate Jeff's served himself. "What if I said I'd only eat the food you've got?"

"_Oye_, Conejo!" Jeff calls out, laughing. "_Este se cree que soy agente secreto_."

Rabbit snickers and takes a huge bite from his _pupusa_, releasing a river of rust-colored juice over his fingers.

Jeff swaps his plate for Nick's, smiling the whole time. "You want that one instead? That's cool." He switches plates with Warrick as well. "_Mira_. Now I got his and he's got yours. We can three-card Monty it until you yell stop; we're all eating the same food. If I want to kill you, I'll put a bullet in your head or slit your throat."

It's honest enough, and Nick looks to Warrick, hang-dog expression more genuine than put on. _I'm HUNGRY, Rick. Really fuckin' hungry._

Warrick acquiesces with a burst of air through his nostrils. Nick sees his partner could use a little grub himself.

"Conejo. Cut loose one hand each. Then finish your _pupusa_ and get your fucking gun on their backs." Jeff flashes a smirk at both of them. "I can be nice, but I ain't stupid."

* * *

Catherine checks his office first, because Gil Grissom is a creature of habit. One who enjoys the safety and sanctuary of his cave. She's not disappointed. She raps her knuckles against the opened door. 

"News?" he asks, looking up.

"Just got a call from PD. They found a truck matching Jim's BOLO--"

"That's good."

"But considering 'white produce delivery truck'…"

"Right. Who's on it?"

"Greg and Sara finished cataloguing everything from last night's 401. They're working through the evidence Nick and Warrick gathered this morning. Day shift's maxed out as it is, plus Divers is out with the flu. I thought I'd take the truck."

"Probably best," Gil smiles.

She leans against the door frame and crosses her arms. Her head falls back against the jamb with a sigh. "This is becoming a little too familiar, isn't it?" His only response is the rise of his brows, and it's admirable and anger-inducing both at the same time. "What the hell's goin' on, Gil? Our boys. In trouble again. In danger. And we can't do anything."

"We can work the evidence, Catherine. That's what we know, and it's the best way to help."

She shakes her head, not ready to accept it. "We're the good guys. The crime scene guys. It's not supposed to happen like this."

"And it shouldn't have," he replies, leaning back in his chair. "Nick and Warrick should have stayed--"

"Don't you do that." She's up in a flash from her passive lean against the wall. "Don't blame them for backing up Brass when nobody else would. You know what's going on."

He holds up his hands, palms forward, offering peace. "I do. And it's not right. Not fair. None of it is. But that doesn't change what's happened."

He's right. She knows it. But it doesn't calm or soothe her or make it any better. "I hate when you do that, you know."

He nods lightly, not willing to engage more than that.

"Somebody better talk to Ecklie and Burdick before IAB starts climbing up Jim's ass again."

"Jim can handle himself."

"Well, it'd be nice for him if somebody had his back on this."

Gil looks at her for a moment – testing his quiet against her fire - waiting for flares. "I'll let the lab's opinion be known."

She bites at her lower lip and then huffs out a breath that lifts her bangs off her forehead; a kind of Willows capitulation. "Any word on the blood yet?"

"It's only been a couple of hours."

"Still, long enough to get prelims. We've got Nick and Warrick's blood-types on file. They can at least verify and eliminate." _Or confirm_. Her brain amends the sentence her lips refuse to form.

Gil removes his glasses and sets them on the stack of paperwork in front of him. "We'll find them, Catherine. Both of them. They were leaving clues for us. That means they were okay when they left the store."

"When they left," she says, and despises him a little for being so stoic and reasonable. But loves him at the same time; he knows how to focus her and tamp down her flames. "All right, I got a date with a produce truck. You call me as soon as you hear anything," she says, pointing as she backs into the hallway.

"I will," he says, and slides his glasses back on.

* * *

"Thanks again, Sam. Can I buy you a cup of really bad vending machine coffee?" 

"Least you could do is make it cafeteria coffee. Besides, I have an ER nurse to drop in on and flirt with fruitlessly. Caf's on the way there."

Jim nods his head with a small smile. "Nurses. There's just something about…"

"Yeah. You and Ginny seemed to spark a little. Huh?"

Jim throws his hands up in gesture that said _'who knows'_ and _'yeah, maybe'_ and _'I don't wanna talk about it'._ Drops them to slap at his sides and jerks his head in the direction of the cafeteria.

Sam grins broadly and falls into step with his friend, a matched set of ugly brown suits making their way down the tiled hallway, following the blue line painted on the floor.

Jim's phone rings at his hip. "Brass," is the curt response, cutting off the second ring. He slows his gait, moves to the side so foot traffic can pass as he listens intently to the party on the other end.

Sam follows form, leaning against the tiled wall, one foot up, head leaned back, hands in pockets.

It's so cool and casual Jim can almost kid himself the detective isn't actively listening. Trying to parse out clues from his briefly uttered responses. "Yeah, thanks," he ends with a sigh, closing the phone and rehooking it to his belt.

Sam raises an eyebrow.

"That was the Lab," Jim supplies. "They got a preliminary match on the blood at the scene. Same type as Stokes; B neg."

Sam's face crinkles then quickly smoothes. "Doesn't mean it's his, right? Probably lotsa people are--"

"Yeah, I was headed that way, too. 'Til Wendy helpfully explained only 2 of the population has that type. Anyway. It means he was actively up and thinking at that point. Grissom said it was all laid out, like Nick was leaving a trail to follow."

Sam nods. "Those humps shouldn'ta picked on two brainiacs like Stokes an' Brown."

"Too bad brains don't beat lead," Brass says with another heavy sigh. "Can I give you a rain check on the coffee? Think I'll head back and see if I can lend a hand. See if they've gotten anything outta the old dude back at the station."

Sam nods, heaving himself away from the wall. "You still want my services? I speak old dude."

Jim cracks a brief smile. "Yeah. Nice to have some back up. Finally."

"Yeah, I heard about that," Sam says, eyes cast downward. "Cops are like fuckin' elephants, man. Never forget anything. At least until they have some other toy to chew on. Someone'll mess up sooner or later and they'll forget that shit ever happened."

"I won't." Jim's smile is sad and rueful and the words are barely spoken, more breathed out than anything. "C'mon." He holds a hand out in _'after you'_ fashion, and they start back down the hall.

They haven't made it much past the hall where Jim'd found Ginny and the younger nurse, outside Bichito's room, when Jim catches sight of a huddled figure; head down, shoulders hunched, hands in the pockets of tan chinos. He's stick thin and a half foot taller than anyone around him. Even with the hood of a sweatshirt over his head, the young man sticks out among the staff and patients who litter the halls. Jim takes in the tan skin and markings that peep out from the navy hoody. Tats. A lot of them.

Never breaking stride, he fakes a laugh and pats Sam on the shoulder like he's just told a joke. He presses his fingers into Vega's bicep, squeezing, and turns with a smile towards his friend. He crinkles his brow and pooches out his lips with a '_shhhhh_'.

He continues that way with a bewildered Sam in tow until they round a corner of the hallway. Jim slams his back against the wall and pops a finger to his lips to reinforce the earlier shushing. Drops his hand to his sidearm, nodding at Sam to do the same, as they lie in wait for the kid to cross their path.

The scarecrow's efforts to keep his head down and the hood up ruin any chance he has to see the cops before they're on him, flanking him, weapons partially drawn from their holsters.

Jim meets eyes with the thug and sees surprise for the briefest of seconds before the squeal of sneakers on tile and those long lanky legs twist the tall form 180 degrees; a rocket released down the long corridor.

_Shit! _Jim pulls out his Sig and holds it at his side as he huffs off in pursuit of the banger. Sam's in his peripheral, mirroring his movements until Jim sees him draw up short to veer around a bathrobe swathed woman bent over a walker.

Scarecrow is nimbly dodging and weaving around the obstacles in his path, pushing aside carts carrying dirty linens, leaving them in Jim's path.

Jim's puffing lightly already, his head swiveling side to side trying to avoid bystanders but keep an eye on his prey. They rush past the nurses' station and Jim catches Ginny's eye. "Call Security!"

He doesn't wait to see if she responds because Scarecrow has hit the door at the end of the hall and is headed into the stairwell.

'_Please take the down stairs'_ is all Jim has time to wish before he's slamming through the not-quite-closed door and pushing through. He catches sight of the top of the banger's head at the bottom of the stairs - almost to the ground floor.

Jim draws his weapon out further, remembering the sight of his fugitive popping off rounds at the OK Corral earlier. "LV Police!" he screams as he rounds the last stair. He thinks he might have a chance to nab the guy at the bottom, but as he hit's the landing he sees a group of hospital workers clustered around the open fire door on an illicit smoke break. A man in janitor's blues turns his head to stare at Jim, stepping back, butt held to his mouth in shock.

Jim pushes past a surgeon in green scrubs, mask pushed down to allow for the massive stogie clamped between his teeth, then past a nurse in a beclowned Pedes uniform. They're all staring out the door into the sunlight.

Jim pulls up with a gasping breath. Scarecrow is on the sidewalk, on his stomach. His hands are being cuffed behind him by two uniformed LVPD officers while he struggles and swears in Spanish.

"How…the fuck…?" Jim chuffs out as he pulls in fresh air.

Sam rounds the corner from the front of the hospital, slowing to a trot with a smile. His hand still holds his radio.

"Called it in," he tells Jim as he approaches, still a little out of breath himself. "Turns out there were some unis hanging around the ER who were happy to help out."

"Hanging out?" Jim asks as his breathing comes under control.

Sam just smiles and shrugs. "Like you said…there's something about nurses."

* * *

She feels like Carmen Miranda after a headgear malfunction; surrounded by fruits and vegetables, down to considering fingerprinting individual apples and bananas. "Get a grip," she tells herself. 

There's enough black print powder in the cab and back of the truck to alter the color of the desert sand. And enough fingerprints for half the population of Vegas.

All things considered, it's not a bad haul. But there are other things, too.

More blood. A lot. Not enough to worry her about a possible gunshot wound, but enough to ensure whomever was bleeding in the _mercado_ was still bleeding in the truck.

There's also a Latex glove – a single – that she finds between the truck's paneled side and a sack of brown onions. It's generic and clean, looks unused, but smacks of the familiarity of the ones she's currently wearing. She knows it's the brand the lab issues, as well as she knows her own hand. More clues. _Thanks, guys._

The best find is the broken cell. The LCD screen is toast, there's a crack like a canyon through the silver plastic handset, and the phone won't fire up. But the memory card is intact, and that could be nothing or everything. No way to know if it belongs to the thugs who have the guys, but it's a better possible lead than the hundreds of lifted prints that probably won't garner a hit in CODIS or AFIS; most of them likely from undocumenteds and illegals.

She's bagging the phone when her own cell chirps at her waist. She seals the evidence bag, sets it in her kit, and checks her display before the call can ring over to voicemail. Grissom.

_Okay._

She takes a deep breath and blows it back out, even though everything in her wants to hold on to it. "Willows," she answers.

* * *

It takes a few pumps of his fingers before the blood is circulating enough to actually hold the food without fear of dropping it. Nick doesn't want to look any more desperate than he does. He watches Jeff power through one of his two _pupusas_, then drain his beer in a couple of long swallows. 

Jeff rises, pushes back his chair, and wipes a hand across his mouth. "Be right back," he tells them, then points at Rabbit. "They try anything, you shoot 'em."

The giggle from the banger behind them should have robbed them of their appetites, but in the end Nick's stomach wins out.

He's actually had Salvadoran food before and loves it as much as he does almost everything that comes from south of the border. But a stolen glance at his partner shows him Warrick is less open-minded. "It's like a…like a grilled cheese sandwich with coleslaw."

"Smells like a quesadilla with sauerkraut," mutters Warrick, poking the fat tortilla with a plastic spoon.

Nick takes a larger-than-his-mouth bite, and a green stringy leaf slaps against his chin.

"What the hell's inside it?"

"Cheese and _loroco_. Squash flowers," says Nick around his chewing. "Aw, man. It's good, bro."

Warrick pushes the _pupusa_ and _curtido_ to the side. Runs his spoon through the beans. "I think I'll stick with the refried protein," he says, rolling his eyes.

"Suit yourself," says Nick around another mouthful. He chews almost gleefully, barely tasting the warm, salty cheese under the pickled cabbage and fiery sauce. But the salsa's heat finally gets to him; tongue stinging, and his split lip a line of fire. After the third bite of the second corncake, he catches himself reaching for the beer. It's halfway to his mouth before he realizes what he's doing and stops himself. Eating is one thing, drinking's just going to mess with his head. Nick sets down the bottle and notices Rick's hand pulling away from his own.

"Hey, Conejo," Warrick calls over his shoulder. "Think we could get some water?"

Rabbit sucks at his teeth. "Man, why the fuck you think I wanna do something nice for a couple cops?"

Nick swallows down the rest of his second _pupusa_. "Come on, man. You were nice enough to give us some food."

Rabbit's laughing and tittering sends a chill up Nick's spine. "That ain't being nice, _menso_. That's Jeff fucking with your head."

"No offense, man. But the kindness of a coupla _pupusas_ isn't gonna bring on Stockholm Syndrome."

"I don't know about no '_stocking_' syndrome, cop," says Rabbit, sliding around the table to stand in front of them. "But those two little _pupusas_ you ate? Are gonna be bringing on something in about forty-five minutes."

The wiry banger's grin is stupidly huge - almost delirious - and Nick freezes with sudden understanding. He swallows tightly and shoots a look at Warrick. "Whatta you mean?"

Rabbit sniggers and bends at the waist, bloodshot eyes spilling sardonic tears down both cheeks. "_Estupido idiota_. You just ate about a quarter gram of weed."

* * *

To be continued... 


	6. Alteracion

CHAPTER 6 - _Alteración_

The pepper-heat on Nick's tongue spreads from his mouth, up his cheeks, down his back.

_What? WHAT?_ "What?"

And then, like an echo of matched outrage and disbelief, Warrick speaks beside him. "What?"

Conejo is laughing uncontrollably now; high pitched '_uks_' like a parrot that leave tears running down his face and his breath, catching.

Nick looks at Warrick, mouth opening and closing like a docked fish. He looks back to Rabbit, who's still laughing and rubbing at his gut. _That can't…I didn't even taste…_He swallows twice and does the only thing he can think to do: jams his fingers down his throat.

The retching and heaving snaps Rabbit from his chucklefest. He stares at Nick for a second, not quite sure what the CSI is doing, and then it clicks. "Hey, you stupid fucking cop!" he yells. He dives across the table, jarring it, sliding it against Nick's and Rick's chests.

Nick's hand pops out of his mouth along with an _'oof'_ - but nothing else. His attempt to abort the tainted _pupusas_ stopped before it's successful.

Rabbit grabs Nick's free hand, tumbling over the table and onto the floor, yanking Nick's arm violently behind him.

"Nick, man! Calm down," says Warrick. It's all happening so fast and he's fighting just to catch his breath from the table's intrusion.

The laughter's completely left the wiry banger and he bounds up from the floor, throwing a glancing blow to the side of Nick's head. _"¡Hijo de puta!" _

Nick lets out a yelp, and Warrick pushes himself back from the table, feet planted on either side of the chair. There's not much he can do, still bound as he is, but he reaches with his free hand and grabs the back of Rabbit's over-sized t-shirt, pulling with all his strength. "Get off him, you son of a bitch!"

His effort wins him an elbow to the jaw, and it's all he can do to keep all four chair legs on the floor.

"Jeff!" Rabbit bellows.

There's the soft sick smack of flesh on flesh and an answering grunt from Nick. Warrick's still clearing the stars from his own vision when they hear the sound of feet pounding across the room at a run.

"_¡Por la puta, Conejo, agárrale las manos!" _Jeff booms on his arrival. He grabs up the bandanna gags Alex had dropped on the floor and frantically works at the twisted knots.

Rabbit has Nick's free hand hoisted across and halfway up his back.

Nick's head shakes back and forth and Warrick catches flashes of the grimace of pain on his partner's face and the fresh flow of blood down his cheek; the banger's last punch has split the mouse under Nick's left eye. "Come on, man!" Warrick yells in frustration. "Ease up!"

Jeff gets Nick's wrist secured to the chair again, no gentleness about it, then clamps a tattooed hand on the scruff of the CSI's neck. "You better chill the fuck out, _weto_."

"You fuckin' drugged me, man!" Nick howls.

Rabbit chuckles behind Warrick while he savages up his free hand. "I told him about the weed, _pelon_, and the _cerdo_ just freaks."

Jeff smiles and pets the struggling Nick like a dog, and Nick whips away his head. "What's the matter, cop? You afraid you gonna get busted by a bad drug test or something?"

Rabbit gives a last tightening yank to Warrick's bindings and sniggers through his nose.

"How were you sure?" Nick grinds out.

"How was I sure about what?" asks Jeff.

"The plates. We switched the plates..."

Jeff laughs and shakes his head. "Shit, cop. I told you before; we're all eating the same shit. Me and Conejo? A little bit of cheeba? Just helps us operate better." He grabs Nick's face in his hand once more. "And helps you cooperate better."

"Fuck you," Nick mutters, pulling away from the banger.

"Nick," Warrick cautions, and Nick sees the tiny rivulet of blood making its way down his partner's chin.

Across the room, a door bangs open.

"Jeff! What the hell's going on?" Alex shouts. His arms are crossed, and smirking New Guy flanks his side.

Jeff smiles, patting Nick's cheek, then calls to Alex. "'S under control, _pelon_. No need to worry. _Yo puedo con este par." _

Alex stands for a moment and is about to turn and leave when the trilling chirp of first one cell phone, and then another, breaks the silence of the warehouse. Nick and Warrick cast looks at each other and then down to their respective phone holsters.

"_La puta_," Jeff utters, red blush rising to contrast the black tats on his cheeks. Alex is at his side by the time Jeff's pulling the ringing cell from Nick's hip.

"Don't answer it," says Alex, arms still crossed over his narrow chest.

"I'm not a fucking _tarugo_, _hermano_," snaps Jeff.

"Stupid enough not to have taken the phones in the first place, _hermano_," says Alex.

Nick's head is spinning, but he manages to kick himself mentally, and sees Warrick doing the same; with everything else going on, with as careful as he'd been to leave clues for the team, they'd both forgotten they had their cells. Not that they'd had an opportunity to use them, but still.

And least now they know the hunt is on.

Rabbit follows Jeff's lead and grabs Warrick's cell from its holster. He passes it to Alex's opened waiting hand. Jeff and Alex check the displays, look to the other's, and read the names to compare. When both phones fall quiet, Alex silently demands the other from Jeff.

Without a second's hesitation, Alex opens the backs of both phones and rips out the batteries. He removes the memory cards and drops them to the concrete floor, grinding them to a mess of nothingness with a stomp and twist of his Romeo-heeled boot.

Jeff watches, silent and dumb, and flinches only slightly when Alex spins on him, anger apparent.

"_¡Maje de porquería!" _You don't think a couple of cops are going to have GPS tracking in their phones?" He points violently at Nick, incredulity flush across his face. "Especially when this one has a habit of disappearing?"

Nick laughs. Can't even help it. _Yeah. GPS. Talk to Ecklie. Maybe if we'da been kidnapped NEXT year… _

Jeff's mouth opens and he makes the smartest move he's made so far; he shuts it without saying a thing. Instead, he concentrates his embarrassed rage on Nick's quiet laughter.

"Who's Grissom?" Alex asks the CSIs.

Nick looks away. Pain and panic, or just embarrassment and anger; he's done with words.

"Our supervisor," says Warrick thickly.

"And Willows?" asks Alex, shifting his questioning toward Warrick.

"Same thing, pretty much."

Alex nods in understanding, maybe in thanks; it's hard to read the firm set of his face.

"Two bosses," sighs New Guy on Alex's left. "That's got to make things difficult."

The red in Jeff's cheeks changes to fire in his eyes. Laser-fine points aimed at New Guy. Alex plays above-it-all, but the sudden tension is palpable.

Alex - the TRUE man in charge, _el jefe castizo_ - turns on Jeff. "Move them to the back, secure them, search them, and then get me the information I asked for. While you've been playing your little 420 games, I've already discovered the murdered girl was Graciela Flores."

Jeff's jaw muscles twitch and the blush rises again.

"_¿Supongo que no sabes nada de eso_, Jeff?" Alex asks, cold as ice.

New Guy titters next to Alex.

"Why would I know anything about the murder of some whore drug mule?"

Alex's lip rises in a snarl - a split second - and then his face is stone and unreadable again. "Get done what I asked. I'm going to _El Beso_ to meet Eduardo Flores. Evidently, he thinks I know something about his dead little sister." With that he turns and leaves.

When _el jefe_ and his tag-along have passed into the other room, door closed behind them,

Rabbit lets out a long breath. "Shit, Jeff. What the fuck we gonna do?"

Jeff turns on the other banger, fists clenched, teeth clenched. "We're gonna keep our mouths shut, you stupid jumpy fuck." He grabs Nick by the chin. "And these _cerdos_ are gonna give us the information to be sure Alex never knows we slit that little bitch's throat."

* * *

"Captain, a moment of your time?"

Jim curses. He's only stopped off in his office long enough to pick up a new magazine for his Sig and any messages from his desk. Two pink paper squares sat in the middle of his blotter, a quick dash at the callers causing him to ball one of them up in his paw. His hand is poised for the three-point shot in the trash can when he looks up at the voice.

With a sigh he half-heartedly tosses the message towards the can, missing it by inches. _Ain't that always how it is?_

The caller he was trying to dodge fills his office door frame. And he's brought with him a more expensively dressed shadow.

"Sheriff. Conrad. I'm kinda busy, guys. What can I do for you?"

"Don't play dumb, Jim. It doesn't suit you," Burdick bites out, now fully entering the small, utilitarian office. Ecklie slinks in after him, pulling off to the side with an unreadable expression on his face.

Jim closes his eyes and smiles. Draws in a breath for strength and the smile leaves his face as his eyes rise to meet his boss. "You think I'm happy about what happened? You think I have any desire to do anything but find our guys and the humps that took 'em?"

Burdick glowers. "What were lab personnel doing in the middle of a goddamn gunfight in the first place? Thought you'd have learned that your co-workers tend to get dead when you shoot your gun off."

Before Jim even has time to form a response Ecklie clears his throat and smoothes his tie. "Grissom tells me forensics are pretty limited. What have you gotten from the witnesses?"

It's the closest Jim has ever been to wanting to kiss another man. Ecklie seems to have succeeded in bringing Burdick's attentions away. The sheriff's ugly words still linger in the air like a bad smell but he's sitting down now, arms folded, waiting for Jim's response. In Jim's chair.

"I have Abramowitz waiting for the mother at Desert Palms. We may not get a chance at her today; docs are saying she needed surgery for the shoulder wound and will be snowed under until "some time" later today."

Burdick snorts and Jim shrugs and makes '_What can you do?_' hands. "I've got Cavaliere in with the old guy. I was just going to check in with Chris before heading over for my own fun."

"The banger you have in the cage?" Burdick prompts.

"Yeah. I was waiting on INS to see if they had anything I could use against him, prints to see if he's in the system. And Sam's checking with the gang unit to see if they have any paper on him." Jim sighs and raises his eyebrows. "Right now we're holding him on creating a disturbance and a really crappy, trumped up assault charge. Seems a little old lady at the hospital got so scared when he dashed by, she fell over. Who knows? Maybe he really knocked her over, right?"

Burdick humphs audibly but it's almost like he's impressed, a small smile curling his thin lips in his skeletal face. Jim doesn't doubt that Burdick's done worse to get where he is today.

"We got GSR on his hands," Jim continues. "Can't do much with that so far. I'd love to get a look under his clothes, but I'm having trouble with the warrant. Seems the judge I picked is concerned I may have 'profiled' this fine, upstanding young man. Because tats of guns, knives, and thirteens covering every inch of his flesh could just mean he's a member of a social club."

Burdick chokes out a dry, half-cough/half-laugh but his eyes remain steel drill bits. "I'll take care of the warrant," he says smugly. "I'm tired of these pieces of shit in my city. Jesus, they need to build a goddamn wall between us and Mexico."

Jim wants to point out that these particular pieces of shit are from further south than that, but keeps his trap shut, happy enough not to be the current target of the sheriff's venom. The fact that Burdick's purported mistress is the family au pair from Honduras will not escape his lips, no matter how badly he wants to jab.

Ecklie seems to sense Jim's internal struggle, and once again surprises the captain with his timing.

"Grissom and Willows are still running the forensics. I'll make sure they know to update you as soon as information becomes available, Sheriff."

Burdick shifts his eyes from Jim to dart them at the Lab Director. Nods once and wipes his hands down his suit pants. Gets up from the chair and begins to leave.

As he reaches the doorway he pauses and turns as if just remembering a bit of good news. "You know you'll have to deal with IAB on this, Brass. HQ doesn't like it any more than I do when we look like assholes. There'll be an inquiry."

Jim just nods. _Same shit, different day. _He'd like to say that IAB will find out about the 'delay' in support arriving, but he's sure by the time it all falls out, they'll have figured out a way it was his fault. Best case scenario, some poor dispatcher will get a pink slip. The blue wall is formidable, and Jim shakes his head, wondering why he always seems trapped on the other side of it.

Burdick is smiling as he leaves Jim's office.

Conrad is still standing off to the side, watching as Jim walks over and picks up the crumpled pink message slip and plays with it, squeezing it in his fist.

Jim scratches his head and finally finds some words. "Thanks, Conrad."

"For what, Jim?"

"You know." Jim begins to pull apart the ball of paper, then smashes it back into a tighter ball. "For trying to provide cover fire."

Ecklie tilts his head. Examines Jim for a brief, disconcerting moment. "You were MY supervisor for six years, Jim. I know what kind of man you are. And I know how you feel about this lab, my people."

Jim feels his chest tighten and he can only nod.

Ecklie returns the gesture, turns and head for the door. He stops, hand on the jamb, and turns. A thin smile cracks across the veneer of his face; it's familiar if not vaguely creepy. "Besides. It's kinda nice not being the most hated around here for a change." He leaves without another word.

Jim stares at the empty doorway. "Thanks, Conrad…" He tosses what is now a compressed pink paper pill at the garbage can. No satisfaction as it rebounds off the lip and falls in; he's mere inches away. "…I think."

* * *

It takes the better part of half an hour to move them to a small back storage area, strip them of their vests, belt buckles, watches, rings – anything with an edge, anything with an advantage – and get them trussed up again. They're seated on the dusty concrete floor, backs to the wall, hands cuffed with plastic zip-ties, ankles shackled up in same.

Jeff and Rabbit are both moving a little slower, glitches of reflective thought before every decision is made. They pass a cheroot back and forth, and Nick knows from the tell-tale smell it's a blunt; a thick joint wrapped in tobacco leaf, like a cigar. Maybe the two gang members are used to operating under the influence, but if they're feeling anything like he is, he can't imagine why they'd want to enhance it.

Three or four minutes ago, the high hit him like a ton of bricks. Like someone'd flipped the surreal switch. He's tingly all over, head floating six inches above his body, Technicolor saturation set at maximum. Every part of him – tongue, ears, arms, legs, each individual CELL – feels wrapped in downy cotton gauze, and he's fighting the paranoid panic threatening to rise in his chest.

Jeff hunkers on his haunches in front of Nick, takes a deep long drag off the blunt. He passes it to Rabbit who stands behind him, lobbing soft, low, sporadic passels of laughter. Jeff exhales a thick plume of blue-grey through his smile, directly into Nick's face asking, bleary-eyed, "How you feelin', cop?"

Nick turns his head, closes his eyes, holds his breath, and waits for Jeff and the smoke to go away.

Jeff yanks roughly on Nick's booted-feet. "_Oye. _I'm talking to you, cop. Not feeling friendly yet?"

"Hey, man. Why don't you leave him alone," says Warrick.

Nick's terrified by, and grateful for, his partner's gesture, by Rick's attempt for reprieve, because he's not entirely sure he can make his mouth work to try and save himself right now. _Please, just…I can't…oh, God… _Eyes squeezed shut, he doesn't see Jeff move away, but actually FEELS the change in the air around him. And that freaks him out even more. _Aw, fuck. _

"You know what I like about you, man?" Nick hears Jeff say, and knows it's not him he's talking to. "You understand me, _hermano. Tú comprendes_."

"How's that?" Warrick asks, and his voice sounds muzzy and far off.

"_Es una cuestión de piel_," says Jeff with a chuff of laughter.

_It's a skin thing? What? _Nick thinks maybe the marijuana has short-circuited the translator part of his brain. _A skin thing? _

"I don't think I _comprendo_ as much as you think," purrs Warrick, low like an angry puma, and Nick wants to open his eyes and make sure his partner hasn't turned into a giant cat.

"See, man? It doesn't matter how brown your skin is, just that it's not white. _Café con leche _to _chocolate_; if it ain't white as snow, you got to deal with the man. _Opresión_. You know what I'm talking about."

"Nah, man. You got it wrong," Warrick says. "It's not the color of your skin, but the content of your character. And I'm guessin' there's a bigger gap than the Rio Grande on that level."

Nick's having trouble following the conversation, thinks maybe it's because his eyes are closed. But he's not ready to open them yet because he feels a hand fall on his thigh, pat twice. Jeff's voice crawls up his chest from his leg and worms into his ear.

"I like the look of blood on white skin better than brown, anyway. Stands out. Has impact."

"Listen, man. There's a way to handle this. A way for this to still be okay," says Warrick.

"You're right. We're gonna handle it," Nick hears Jeff say, and then there's another pat to his thigh. "Me and Conejo are gonna go get some… _juguetes_. Something to help make conversation. You and your partner can talk out all the details and figure out how cooperative you want to be."

Nicks feels Jeff rise, step over his out-stretched legs, and cross to the door on the other side of the room. Rabbit's low laugh is cut off with the click of a lock.

* * *

A/N: Kim found a great reggaeton song that goes along with this chapter. You can find the link at the everymonkey bio page. 


	7. Puente

**Disclaimer:** While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving.

**SPOILERS/Timeline:** Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'

**UNDYING GRATITUDE:** To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.

* * *

"Hey. Archie just paged me. Should be info on the memory card from the smashed cell from the truck. Care to join me?"

Gil nods but he's obviously lost in thought, tapping the phone receiver against his bearded chin. He cocks his head to the side as if puzzling over something then purses his lips as if reaching a conclusion that surprises him. He nods to the air again as if agreeing with himself. Hangs the phone up slowly and finally turns his attention to Catherine still in the doorway.

"Archie. The cell phone from the truck. Right."

Catherine shakes her head impatiently. "Glad you're up to speed on this, Gil. But we could use a little more."

He cocks his head like a dog at its master's feet again and Catherine huffs out an exasperated sigh. "Speed, Gil. Come on. What the hell has you so stunned?"

Gil opens his mouth to answer but she cuts him off with a toss of her head. "Come on. You can tell me on the way."

She's already several feet down the corridor by the time Gil is out of his office so she slows, reluctantly, enough so that he still has to hasten his step.

"How do you do this in heels?"

Catherine just rolls her eyes and keeps up her hasty pace. "So. Phone call?"

"I called Conrad. Ultimately the… misplacement of CSI personnel falls under his purview. I was trying to do as you asked and lend Jim my support."

"And?" she asks impatiently as they near the AV lab.

"Aaand… he said he'd already let Burdick know, under no circumstances did he blame Jim for this mess."

Catherine slides to a stop, heels skittering briefly on the tile floor. "And you believed him?" she asks, her doubt crystal clear in her voice.

"Not at first, no. But then he asked if I needed any extra support- offered up priority queues in all the labs, plus extra payroll for overtime."

"No hook? No fine print?" Catherine's eyes narrow and she tries on a moue for a second or two while she processes. "When the…Gordon thing happened…Ecklie came up with some idea to raise the money with budget cuts and salary freezes. I still question whether that was genuine or a thinly veiled attempt at him pushing through plans he'd wanted all along."

Gil is already nodding in agreement. "Which is why I called Jim. He said he'd already been paid a visit by Conrad and Burdick, and apparently…" He scratches his beard and softly smiles. "Apparently Conrad '_didn't suck'_ was the way Jim put it."

"Huh." Catherine wipes a hand over her forehead and down her cheek to rest for a second. "Imagine that. Conrad Ecklie not sucking. Maybe there's hope for him yet."

Gil just nods and holds out a hand, ushering her into the AV lab.

Archie looks up at their arrival, fingers finishing a task across the keyboard while he says hello. "Hey, guys. Any news yet?"

Catherine shakes her head sadly. "Not yet, Arch. How 'bout you? What'd you get off the cell?"

Archie's mouth pulls down a little at the corners. "Not much. Sorry. The cell's a disposable. Pay as you go thing, so it's not registered to a specific user. I did find out it was purchased at a 7-11, but it'll take me another day or two before their guys can tell me which one. Which wouldn't necessarily help anyway."

"I know you didn't page me down here to tell me you have nothing."

Archie holds up a finger, begging patience. "I want to try something. When you guys called Nick and Warrick, did their phones ring, or go straight to voicemail?"

Gil exchanges a look with Catherine. "We've been operating under the assumption they were taken from the scene by force. Why would they be able to answer the phone?"

Catherine closes her eyes and looks like she might be sick right there in the lab. "GPS," she breathes. "We never even thought to use GPS to see where the phones are."

Archie is already shaking his head vehemently. "Thought of that the first I heard. No GPS in our issued phones. The technology only recently became available widespread. And our contract with the cell company isn't up until next year. I heard the new budget includes phones with GPS chips in 'em."

"Of all the cheap, penny pinching …" Catherine starts to work up a head of steam.

Gil places a calming hand on her arm. "No use crying over --"

"Spilt milk? Damn it, Gil! Pithy goddamn axioms?" She takes in a deep breath and centers herself, swiping angrily at her hair. "So, what, Archie? We call their phones, and…?" She has her cell phone out and is already flipping it open to hit the speed dial as Archie catches up and turns back to his computer screen. He pulls up a diagram of the city, blocked out in tans, blues, and greens.

"If their phones are still operative, say the bad guys set them aside or threw them out somewhere near where they're being held? If anybody answers the phone, I can use the connected signal to triangulate with the cell towers being used. Could at least get us in the neighborhood."

Catherine stares a large-bore laser into Grissom, and when he doesn't move, she mouths 'Warrick'.

Gil nods and hits his own speed dial button. "And if they can't, and no one else does?"

The lab tech shrugs his shoulders. "Then we're kind of S.O.L. and I'll be running the stored numbers off the memory card all day." Archie inputs the numbers for their phones from a Rolodex on his desktop, and two overlapping red dots light up, centered over their location at the lab. "I put our info in as the first point of the triangulation," he explains to the two behind him, eyes never leaving the screen.

Catherine shakes her head, phone still to her ear. "I'm getting Nicky's voicemail."

Gil nods. "I've got Warrick's."

Archie keeps his eyes on the monitor. "Did they ring first? Four rings, or straight to voicemail?"

"I got four rings," says Catherine, holding out the phone as if it proves the point.

"Four rings on Warrick's, as well."

"Okay," says Archie, fingers hopping on a few more keys, "Well, at least we know the phones are capable of being answered."

Catherine hits disconnect and then speed dial again.

Grissom looks at her, confused. "What are you--?"

"I do it with Linds all the time. If I'm persistent, eventually it gets picked up."

When Grissom turns to him seeking some sort of understanding, Archie just shakes his head. "Hey, I do the A/V thing, Cathrine's the teenager expert. I guess it's worth a try."

Gil considers it for a moment and flips open his own cell again. Punches in the speed dial for Warrick.

Catherine lets out an anguished curse and drops the phone to her hip. "Going straight to voicemail now."

"Same here," says Gil, closing up his own phone with a bleak expression on his face.

"Phones either just got shut off or disabled, then. CSIs have call waiting. Sorry, guys," says Archie. "I'll start running the numbers off the memory card. Top priority."

"Thanks anyway, Archie," says Grissom, a hand dropping onto the tech's shoulder. "Like you said, it was worth a try."

Catherine just nods brusquely and leaves the room without another word.

* * *

Burdick may be a grade-A asshole, but he comes through. The GSR pulled from the as yet unnamed banger turns out to be sufficient for a warrant; enough to detain the suspect, run prints, and get his clothes. Jim breathes a silent thanks, his conscience free of the trumped-up charges he'd been relying on until now.

Jim's a good cop, and he knows in his gut that this tattooed hump is up to his neck in Bad Shit, but they'd had nothing to hold him on and that rankled. Jim had played the game by the rules, rubbery and bendy as he liked to flex them, but there were rules nonetheless. And in this day and age, all the scrutiny they were under? He really didn't feel like getting somewhere, only to have some bleeding heart throw everything out on a technicality.

He rounds the corner in time to see the thug he's mentally tagged as Scarecrow - at least until a suitable replacement is obtained - pulling an orange one-piece jumpsuit up over his slim hips.

Jim takes in all the ink, trying to catalog away the tattoos in his head for later.

The banger's bony, practically concave chest bares another of those flaming sacred hearts Sam had pointed out before, higher up and centered over his sternum. His stomach is a riotous mix of thirteens, Spanish phrases, and a naked lady (much better than the one Bichito has) reclines across the waistband of Scarecrow's low hanging boxers; her one hand wrapping around his navel, the other dipping down below the elastic waistband of his underwear.

Scarecrow stops, suit still barely higher than the boxers, and flashes Jim an icy smile. He could used the cheap-ass dental work his buddy, Bichito, has; the banger's teeth are discolored, leaning like an old picket fence. _"¿Disfrutando la vista, querido?" _He pushes his lips out in a duckbill and bats his eyes in grotesque parody. Kisses the air with a harsh squeaky sucking.

Jim humphs out a laugh. "Already got a date with a nurse, I think, but thanks."

"_¿Quieres mirarme bien?"_

Jim just blinks at the Spanish but then Scarecrow stands and turns like a model, one arm out, the other hanging on to the sagging jumpsuit.

His back is almost a single piece: a rocket on the launch pad. The exhaust from the fuselage burps out in coils and columns of smoke and flames. And in nicely matched, curlicue lettering is scrawled "Cohete".

"Hey, nice ink," comes a voice behind Jim. He turns to see Chris Cavaliere in the doorframe.

The younger detective is visibly impressed, eyebrows raised as he appraises the work in front of him. Jim clears his throat and Cavaliere breaks his gaze to look over. "Sorry, Jim. But that is some nice work. Not the usual prison shit. Our boy paid good money for that one, or has a relative or buddy who's a real artist."

"What are you doing here, Chris?" Jim asks tiredly. Not that he isn't happy to have the company of one of the few other cops who generally has his back, and a Spanish speaker to boot, but Cavaliere has a rep as a short-tempered ass.

"Got bored with the old guy, Chavez. Heard you had someone way more interesting in here."

Jim just grunts out another short laugh. "Hey, the more the merrier. You wanna _habla _with our friend?"

"Love to." Cavaliere waits as Jim takes a seat opposite the banger, still struggling into the jumpsuit.

Jim drops his weight onto a rickety chair and pulls out his trusty notebook and pencil nub. A broad grin forms and Cavaliere turns to see what Jim finds so humorous.

The banger is so tall, once he's got his arms in, the jumpsuit tugs up against his crotch, practically cutting him in half. The pants legs are flood length, ending halfway down his calves, and the short sleeves end a full four inches above his bony elbows.

The thug glares balefully at them, then gathers what dignity he has left and folds himself into the other chair. He crosses his arms as best as he can, wincing as the fabric pinches him, then stares at the mirrored glass behind Brass.

"_¿Tienes nombre, hermano?"_ Cavaliere asks.

"_No soy tu hermano, cerote mexicano."_

"Whoa." Cavaliere raises his hands in surrender. "Not bad. Dude pegged me as Mexican right off."

"Maybe it's the accent," Jim says with a smile.

"Ha ha. Yeah. Well, if the tats weren't enough, he's Salvadoran from _his_ accent. And he doesn't seem to care for _my people._" He turns back to the glowering thug. _"Te pregunté el nombre, güey."_

He gets no response to what Jim at least recognizes as a second request for the banger's name.

"Cohete? _¿Es tu apodo?"_ Cavaliere tries again. The banger shifts uncomfortably in the jumpsuit and squirms in his chair.

"I think we're safe with an ID of 'Cohete'," Cavaliere says to Jim. "Means _'rocket' _in case you didn't pick that up," he adds with a chuckle.

"Yeah," Jim says with a sigh. "Got that." They're wasting their time here and the senior detective's getting prickly. "Ask him what he was doing at the hospital."

Cavaliere translates but Cohete just rolls his eyes. He gets the same response to '_Where'd the GSR come from?_', '_Who are you running with?_', and '_What do you know about the death of Graciela Flores?'_

Jim is getting pissed, and he thinks if he sees another roll of the eyes, rules or no, he'll be knocking that bony shaved skull so hard those eyes will fall out of their sockets. He plants his fists loudly on the rickety table and is gratified by the thug startling, at least. "Ask him what he knows about the kidnapping of two cops!"

Cavaliere nods shortly. _"¿Sabes algo de los policías que agarraron?. ¿Se los llevó tu gente?"_

Cohete's brow knits and he draws back with an incredulous look on his face. _"¡No sé de lo que estás hablando, cerdo¡Me viste que estaba en el hospital! Quería ver a mi primo. ¡Nada de secuestrar a ningún policía!"_

Cavaliere starts to translate for Jim but he's already got it. It's crystal clear by Cohete's response that he has no clue about the CSIs being grabbed.

Jim takes the notebook he's been clutching in his hand, pencil at the ready to write down absolutely FUCK all, and slams it on the table. The Carter-era office furniture has an unstable leg, cants to one side. The pencil hits the surface and rolls off onto the ground.

Jim's practically growling now, teeth gritted so tightly he swears the cap on his back most molar is about to snap off. He bends, exhaling heavily, and swipes his hand at the pencil. And catches a bright flash of color under the table.

The sky blue is set off especially nicely by the hunter orange jumpsuit, practically pops off Cohete's calf: the flag of El Salvador. The same tat Jim caught on the calf of the banger fleeing the scene in the chopped and dropped Chevy. Leaving behind a bleeding buddy in the dusty street.

"Hey, Chris." He nudges Cavaliere, who bends down to see what the hell has the captain so entranced underneath the table. "I think I know how he got the 'Rocket' tag."

* * *

"Nick."

His name has a tone, a feel, a COLOR almost, coming from his partner's mouth.

"Nick, man."

He risks opening his eyes and turning toward Warrick. It's like he's moving in slow motion, suspended in Karo-syrup. The room tracks and blurs, and by the time he's facing Rick he can feel a heavy-duty sweat forming, slick, across the back of his neck. "Shit, man…"

"Hey," says Warrick, wincing as he scoots and maneuvers closer to him, "How you doin'?"

"I'm not…I'm…" His lips aren't his; feel borrowed from someone else. "I don't like this, Rick."

"Listen to me, Nicky. You're okay. I get you're not feelin' that way, but you're gonna be fine, bro."

Nick shakes his head, tiny side-to-sides that awaken a buzz behind his eyeballs. "I don't think so, man…"

"Come on, boss. I need you to keep it together."

_Keep it together. Right_. Even though he feels like he's completely come undone. "Rick, man, they know…"

"Nick," Warrick says.

"They know about Gordon, and if they--"

"Nick." Firm. Calm. Solid.

Nick's breathing picks up; slow, shallow, and swift. "I can't…if they--"

"That's not gonna happen, man. Listen to me."

But he can't listen, can't hear. For all intents and purposes he's back in that box. Back in the earth. Back to May and his service pistol jammed against the underside of his chin.

"You ever smoke?"

"What?" Nick hears him but thinks he must not have.

"You ever get high before?"

It's a funny question. A CRAZY question his best friend is asking. Because after all the time they've known each other, it's never really come up. But, yeah. "Yeah."

"You smoke it or eat it?"

And that's an even funnier question. It just is. He laughs, embarrassed. "Rick, man. This is nuts. How the fuck does this shit keep happening to me?"

Then there's pressure; something hard against his side. Warrick's scooched next to him, is leaning his lanky body against Nick's more compact frame.

"You gotta calm down, man. It's the dope doin' this. You smoke it or eat it before?"

"Smoked it," Nick says and turns his head to scratch his chin on his shoulder. _Damn, that was a horrible night. _"Made me paranoid, Rick. That kinda paranoid where you know it's irrational and you still can't do shit about feelin' it. Like bein' under a microscope while givin' a speech in a crowded auditorium. Everybody lookin' at ya, thinkin' stuff you're thinkin'… Freaked me out, man. And this is…Fuck! This is gonna be worse, man, I can feel it." He tries hard to keep his breathing under control.

Warrick bucks him gently, shoulder against shoulder. "So, come on, bro. Get your CSI game on. You know what weed does to ya, and you know what it does to the body. Speeds up your heart, reduces your oxygen output, ratchets up the paranoia factor. You ate it – a pretty sizable amount, dude – so you know that's all gonna be intensified. Gonna go straight into your blood stream from the stomach, latch onto your fat cells…"

_Right. Right._ He knows Warrick's right…

"Effects are gonna stick with you longer because of all that. The amount the kid said? You're probably lookin' at a five to six hour high."

Nick smiles goofily, science and sense having skipped through his brain crossing just the short distance between in one ear and out the other. "What'd you attend a seminar on this stuff?"

"Kinda like that."

Nick's high – _oh, very high_ – but not THAT high. "Warrick. You a magic brownie connoisseur?"

Warrick fights a smile. His eyes dip closed, he shakes his head, and exhales a breath through his nose that speaks a litany about the travails and missteps of youth. "First time was my freshman year of college. Friend of a friend shows up at this jazz club with a Tupperware container of chocolate chip cookies. Goes on and on about how turnin' on helps you tune in; you can feel the music, all that. This was before I went the Criminal Justice route…"

Nick sniggers. _Oh, shit…_ Because it's suddenly funny. SERIOUSLY funny, to imagine his best bud, in college, stoned out of his mind. And then the play on words hits him – _Bud. Best bud. Good bud, man_ – and Nick's coughing out a laugh that's from some place like maniacal idiot, or maybe anxious desperado. "Oh, Warrick, man…"

"Yeah, laugh it up, Captain Hilarious. Keep that thought in mind and center on it, man. This'll pass. Stay positive, okay?"

And that's kind of sobering. Nick sniffs deeply, rubs watery tears off each cheek with a shoulder. Hisses and utters a curse when he wipes his left cheek. Hits the open cut there.

"You got any idea what they're plannin'?"

Nick shakes his head. "Shoot, I don't even know what they want. Pretty sure, though, they wanna know how much evidence we gathered at the scene."

Warrick nods, eases his lean against Nick. They stare straight ahead, no eye contact, and Warrick lets out a long, slow breath. "How you wanna play this, man?"

Nick runs his tongue along the roof of his mouth, over his teeth. He tastes left-over blood, _curtido_, thinks NOW he can taste the weed. And he'd do almost anything for a sip of water to clear the cotton from his mouth. "I figure Alex wants to hear we got an idea who killed Graciela Flores…"

"And Jeff wants to hear we don't."

"We're lookin' at the south end of a north bound horse..."

"Just gotta figure which rider is the safest bet."

There are muffled voices outside the door; too low for Nick to understand, but he knows one belongs to Jeff. He can feel it by the way his stomach lurches and aches. "Warrick--"

"We play it cool, Nick. Go with the flow. Watch each other's leads."

Nick can feel the tiny tips and taps of the key finding the hole as if his skin is the key plate. Feels the metal click of the lock like a ricocheting echo at the base of his spine. He just nods.

"We're gonna get outta here, boss."

And then Jeff and Rabbit are back.

The door swings inward and the bangers glide in like their shoes are ice, Jeff's smile wide and cold. "Hey, _cerdos_, you miss us?"

Rabbit's been reduced to little more than the uck-ing parrot at Jeff's shoulder. He giggles and grins and scratches one tattoo-sleeved arm across his middle. When the cotton t-shirt presses against his body, Nick can see the lump of a gun under the material.

Jeff steps to Nick, squats down, and bounces on the balls of his feet. He grabs a fistful of Nick's henley and pulls him forward a few inches from the wall.

All Nick can do for a few seconds is wonder how Jeff could be such a punk and still keep his t-shirt and socks and tennis shoes so white and spotless. And then he tries really hard not to throw up, because another wave of nausea breaks in his stomach, and there's a swell in the high. _Aw, damn_…

"How 'bout you, _weto_? You miss me? I missed you. Couldn't stop thinking about you."

"That right?" Nick asks, making an effort to sound calm and polite, but not provocative.

The nuance is pretty much lost on Jeff. He pulls back the fist not otherwise engaged, and drops it like a rock against Nick's lips.

Nick's head snaps back and taps the cinderblock wall. Warrick shouts something, but Nick can't process it, what with the fireworks going off inside his skull, and all that wet warmth on his chin.

Jeff and Rabbit cackle like hyenas, then Jeff hoots like a _vaquero_. "That's what I been thinking, cop! About that!" He hollers again and shakes out his hand, tiny dots of Nick's blood flying off his ruby knuckles. "I been thinking you and me should spend some one-on-one time. _Hablar. Mano a mano_."

Nick gets a second of clear mind and vision, enough to smile at the fact Jeff's t-shirt isn't so clean anymore, when the next blow comes. Warrick's yelling again, but fuck if Nick knows WHAT, because this punch makes his nose pop and his ears ring.

"Course," says Jeff smiling, forcing up Nick's dipping, dripping chin, "Hand to face works okay for me, too."

* * *

To be continued...


	8. Distracción

**Disclaimer:** While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving.

**SPOILERS/Timeline:** Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'

**UNDYING GRATITUDE:** To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.

* * *

The screen in front of them is filled with a silent movie. If Sam Peckinpah and Michael Bay and Jerry Bruckheimer had all sat down to make a movie together at the turn of the century.

The picture is grainy, black and white and blurry at the edges. But it isn't directorial whim that's made it this way. It's the poor quality of the surveillance camera whose footage they are all focused on.

Gil peels his eyes away from the video long enough to dart a glance at Jim.

The flickering light reflects off the detective's pale face. He winces, but doesn't look away from the screen showing the violent moments captured just this morning.

They pulled the camera off the storefront of a pawn shop. The owner is Panamanian, has been accepted warmly into the Salvadoran neighborhood, and has recently become appalled at the deterioration of the block. He told the cops it started with young people filling the streets at late hours; drinking from paper bag-wrapped bottles, smoking from fat hand-rolled 'cigarettes' that had them all giggling like fiends, hassling folks as they walked by. And recently, those young kids have turned feral, roaming the streets not with bottles and blunts, but knives and guns. Local shops had all had visits paid them by the MS-13, 'suggestions' made - backed up by icy grins and thinly veiled threats - that business would best be served by allowing protection help.

The pawnshop owner had stood his ground. He is an honest man, provides an honest service for immigrants in need of cash to start anew. He's made an effort to keep stolen goods off his shelves, and has recently, reluctantly, installed video cameras, inside and out.

On screen, Video Jim is hunkered down behind a paper box, screaming wordlessly into his radio. The spray of stucco, metal filings, and newspaper shreds is testament to the silent shots going off all around him.

The mother and her child are off in the corner, cowering behind a rusted out boat-sized Cadillac.

Catherine stares saucer-eyed at the picture. She gasps, hand rising to her mouth, as the boy breaks free of his mother's hold. Even though she knows the boy escapes unharmed, her mother instinct has her face frozen in fear-- a match to the mother's on screen.

Nick and Warrick enter the scene from parts unknown, grabbing up the kid and mother, pulling them into a storefront.

At a nod from Jim, Archie hits the fast forward, smearing all the action into jagged, flickering lines of black and white. He releases the button in time to see an SUV leaving the scene, figures scurrying in and out of doorways, flat out running off screen. Video Jim stands, levels his gun – the momentary flinch only evident because Real Jim knows its there - and pops off a single shot. The gun jerks back slightly, and then he's shaking his head and raising his hands as the nose of a police cruiser stops just inside the frame.

Gil's face is a blank mask, lips tightly set in a line nearly hidden by his beard. He turns to his friend, face hung heavy with respect and regret. Speaking to Archie, his eyes meeting Jim's, Gil says softly, "I want copies made of that tape. And make sure they get the time stamp nice and clear."

On the screen behind them, Toolie offers Jim a handkerchief to wipe the blood from his face.

In the low light of the A/V lab, Gil takes in the scabbed cut on Jim's cheek and shakes his head. He sighs out a long breath through his nose, and there's cold anger in his voice. "Jim, that was inexcusable. I'll make sure IAB gets this on the widescreen in the conference room."

Jim just smiles mildly and nods. "Worth a shot, huh?"

Catherine steps to his side, rubs his arm briefly, then turns and bends over Archie's shoulder, muttering something quietly to the A/V tech before returning her attention to the two men. "That was the most disgusting thing I've seen in a long time," she huffs. "And I've seen a lotta shitty stuff in my years."

Jim just raises his brow at her and shuffles uneasily. "Sam's following up on the license plate Archie pulled off the SUV," he says.

Gil sighs loudly and, odd for him, appears to weigh what he's about to say. "Wendy finished her DNA assay on the blood we found at the scene." He shifts his weight and leans a hip against the table, folding his arms across his chest. "It all came back as Nick's."

A small noise escapes Catherine and Gil quickly stands straighter, rests his hands on her shoulders and forces her to look him the eye. "It's not that much blood, Cath. And from the buccal calls and mucous found mixed with it, I'd wager it's a bloody nose; hardly a mortal wound."

Catherine takes a step back, pulling free from Gil's hands. She takes in a breath and looks ready to loose the hounds of Hell on the supervisor when there's a tentative knock on the A/V room door.

Mandy stands in the entrance, paperwork in her hand. She shoves her glasses up on her nose and takes another step in. "I, uh, got hits on the prints Catherine pulled off the produce truck."

"Come on in, Mandy," Gil says, waving a hand at her.

She stops, uncertainty clear in her expression as she flicks eyes at Catherine's face and reads the tension in the room. She actually bends forward, feet rooted to the floor as she hands over the results to Grissom.

Mandy clears her throat and sets her shoulders. "It's definitely the truck Warrick and Nick were, uh, transported in. Their prints came back, along with the driver, Mr. Chavez. There were about a dozen unknowns, probably various people loading and unloading the produce south of the border. I, uh, don't have access to prints from Mexico, obviously."

Catherine's foot begins to tap, not quite subtly, and Mandy picks up the pace. "I got hits off two sets. One belongs to an Ernesto Salazar, street name Joker. And the other is a Federico "Freddy" Aguilar. Don't know how much help that is though."

"Why not?" Catherine almost snaps.

"Because INS shows them being deported two years ago. They're supposedly in El Salvador."

Jim sighs, shakes his head. Mutters something about 'ants' under his breath. Takes the results from Gil's hands, taps them distractedly against his hip. "Let's operate under the assumption that they're back. I'll run these by Cavaliere and see what shakes out."

The detective leaves and Catherine pauses, then turns on her heel to follow him out, brushing past Mandy without a word.

Gil lets out a long-held breath, rubs briefly at the bridge of his nose, and reconsiders his poorly worded reassurances to Catherine. He hopes he won't come to regret them.

* * *

Warrick has no idea how long they've been at it. Seems like a long time. Probably seems like FOREVER for Nick, since he's been getting most of the attention. At least they've stopped working his face.

Warrick can't see how bad the right side is, but Nick's profile and the left side of his face look like a nightmare. Warrick bets ten'll get him twenty Nick can't see out of his eye. His cheek's puffed high and shiny, but it's the swollen blue and purple eyelid that's what's convincing Warrick. That, and the blood; there's blood everywhere: from temple, brow, cheek, eye, nose, and mouth. Warrick can see crimson streaked through Nick's hair and pooled in the cup of his ear. _Jesus Christ_. "Hey, Jeff. Jeff. Listen to me for a second, man."

The banger glances down at Warrick from where he stands; one hand bloodied, the other holding Nick firmly against the cinderblock wall of the store room. _"¿Que pasa, hermano?"_

"Hey, _jefe_. I gotta take a piss, man," Rabbit slurs listlessly from his perch on a stack of naugehyde and burlap bolts.

"_¡Por la puta, c__á__llate,_ Conejo!" Jeff shoots over his shoulder before addressing Warrick again. "What's up, bro?"

"Maybe you can chill on my partner a little bit."

Jeff tightens his grip on Nick's henley and kicks the Texan's bound feet out from under him.

Nick's dropped to the ground, Jeff's hold on his henley roughly pulling up the shirt at his armpits, hoisting his shoulders even higher. He hisses out a '_Son of a_--' but doesn't get any farther; his butt hits the concrete, and the curse is pinched off by an animal squeal.

Warrick's nostrils flair but he stays quiet and still as Jeff releases Nick's shirt and steps over to him.

Jeff squats and cocks his head. "What'd you say, _prieto_?"

Warrick sniffs, tastes his own blood on the back of his tongue. "I'm sayin' you're beatin' the shit outta him. And if you ever do get around to actually askin' us any questions, he's gonna be in no condition to answer. So why don't you chill on him a little."

A slick smile spreads over Jeff's face. He stands, crosses his arms, stares down at Warrick. "Questions, huh? You want questions? Man, you cops are always with the questions."

There's something angry and sharp in Jeff's voice.

"Rick?" Nick sounds mildly panicked through his puffy lips.

"Right here, man," Warrick replies, never taking his eyes off Jeff.

Jeff drops back down in front of Warrick. "You wanna know what kind of questions I'm used to cops asking me?" The vice grip Jeff applies to Warrick's jaw is tight enough to raise bruises. "I get hauled in for walking down the street, man. For looking sideways at a passing car. What's the word?"

"Profiling," Rabbit calls out, sounding like an eager 5th grader.

And Warrick instantly gets it. All that blood on his partner's face and not a single question about Graciela Flores? This isn't about getting busted for murder. Not yet, anyway. This is about Jeff hating Cops. Hating Whites. Hating the World. And Nick's just the closest ring to the bull's eye for all the gang banger's anger and frustration; Jeff's using Nick's face as a sociological soapbox.

"Profiling," spits Jeff. "Fancy cop word. Nice way to replace something dirty like '_stereo-typing_'. I get hauled into the PD, and you know what I get asked? _'Where you from, son? You got a green card, boy? Who you run with, hombre?'_ Like I'm some Mexican beaner piece of shit who splashed my way across the river."

Rabbit sniggers from his spot across the room.

"I was born in this country, _hijo de puta_! To proud Salvadoran parents who came here to make a better life. You know what they got? My father bled to death on a bus, trying to get across town to the county hospital. The rich bitch whose patio he was laying when the stone saw took off three of his fingers? She wouldn't call an ambulance because she didn't want anybody to find out she was employing an illegal."

Warrick pinches closed his eyes. _Oh, shit, shit, shit_…

"People come to this country to make a better life, and they get treated like animals. Like stray dogs in the street. And when we mobilize, join forces, fight for a little piece of anything? They lock us up. Throw away the key. Watch us bleed in the streets and then turn the other way. _Mara Salvatruchas_ take power back, man. They won't give it to us? We steal it. We take it by force."

Jeff reaches around his back, under his t-shirt, and brings a knife to Warrick's face. The weapon is decidedly un-gang banger-ish, far more deer hunter; blade about seven inches long, serrated along one edge, curving up in a sharp hook at its tip.

Warrick holds his breath.

"Say hello to my little friend," says Jeff with a sick grin.

_Oh, that's just great. Another banger who's seen "Scarface" a few dozen times._

The chuckle from Nick sounds ridiculously fraught, catches them all by surprise. "You know, Tony Montana dies at th' enda that movie."

_Oh, shit, Nicky…_

Jeff's on him in a flash, so fast it's like a magic trick; glimmer of the overhead light off the knife acting as a kind of lightning bolt puff of smoke. The hooked tip of the blade rests heavily in the dip below Nick's adam's apple. "We all gotta die some time, _weto_. Laugh now, cry later."

_Fuck. Shit. Damn it, bro!_ But Warrick knows Nick can't really help it; he's hurt, he's scared, he's HIGH. "Why did Graciela Flores have to die?" Warrick asks. Anything to get Jeff – and that knife – away from Nick.

Jeff spins on Warrick so quickly, Warrick can't initially register why Nick's suddenly gasping and pulling back his head. Then he sees the little tributary of red tumbling down his partner's neck.

"Jesus, man!" _Not bad._ Warrick can see the cut is small. _It's not that bad._ But Nick's BP is up because of the weed, and there's already been so much blood…

Jeff dances the knife before Warrick's face. "It's sharp, man. Sharp knife."

The banger looks to Nick, who's huffing out short-quick breaths like the little engine that thinks maybe it CAN'T, and lifts the Texan's chin. "That's nothing, man. Like a slip with your razor." Jeff turns back to Warrick with a glint in his eyes to match the one off the blade. "Graciela, though…We sliced that _puta_ open good."

* * *

The confines of the station, massive as the brick structure is, has become claustrophobic. Too many faces, heads bent together in quiet talk, straightening only barely to acknowledge him, grudgingly. His office still stinks of Ecklie and Burdick; Bryllcream and wint-o-green Lifesavers for the former, Cuban cigar and heavy Paco Rabanne for the latter.

So Jim heads for his car. Even if he has to sit out in the parking lot and make a few calls, it's the lesser of two evils.

The Taurus is at the back of the lot, his captain title not enough to earn him one of the primo spots under the trees that line the front by the entrance. In hottest July, the trees kept the cars' interiors under a hundred and fifty, but also meant their owners probably spent a mint on bird shit removal.

Jim pops the car open, regretting again his Charger's presence in the garage. He misses the souped-up power of the Dodge, but the Ford is at least roomy, comfortable. And in this winter chill, the sun has heated the interior, making it damn near cozy. The V8 rumbles under him as he lets it run for a bit, flicking on the heat and rubbing his hands in front of the blower.

He can feel the warmth soak into his tired bones and wishes he could just close his eyes, recline the seat a bit and close his eyes for ten minutes. Ten minutes in, what? He glances at the radio clock. Jesus, it's been damn near a full twenty-four hours since his eyes last closed, in his bed at home.

His eyes are winning the battle. The heater air is dry and makes him blink - each blink turns into a game; leave one closed, then the other. He feels his chin hit his chest and the little hit of adrenaline he gets is enough to awaken fully. He reaches out, flips off the heat, and hits the express down on the window. Cool air rushes in and he slaps his cheeks lightly, then harder. Lord, what a sight he must look to anyone walking by in the parking lot.

The phone at his hip rings and vibrates and he flips it open, checking the caller ID as he grunts out, "Brass."

"_Jim, it's Sam." _

The video - the pimped out Escalade. "Please tell me you got something, Sam."

"_Better than something, Jimmy. I got what we in the trade call 'a lead'."_

"Oh, thank God," Jim breathes.

"_What's that?"_

"Nothing. What you got for me, Sam?"

"_We found the owner of the Escalade. Genius was still in the damn thing and carrying. We pulled enough hardware outa that car we're gonna be matching ballistics to cold cases 'til Easter." _

"And?" Jim asks, tamping down his impatience but unable to completely mask the edge to his voice.

"_And, with that much hardware, as long as we can keep him? Lets just say it gave me something to work with. Dude's name is Juan Jimenez, aka Johnnycakes, aka Johnny Jay, aka el Nariz."_

"The nose?"

"_Yeah, you gotta see it to believe it. Anyhow, he's a __capitan__ in the Eastside __Jinetes. __Part of a Sinoloan Cowboys set that runs the area that butts up against Puesta del Sol. They get into scraps with the Sol Set pretty regularly. Fights over territory for drugs and working girls. Turns out he's pretty damn happy to spill on the competition."_

Jim reaches out with his free hand and drops the Taurus in reverse, already craning his head to check behind him as he backs out of his space. He pins the phone against his ear with a shoulder and completes the maneuver as Sam continues feeding him information.

"_Turns out the guy who runs the Sol Set isn't so great a mystery to those who deal with them regularly. El __jefe__ goes by the name Alex. Alejandro Salazar Arrue. And he does most of his business out of a club on Segundo called El Beso." _

Jim pounds the steering wheel happily, invigorated with the first real break he's had since the morning's shit went down. "I still owe you a coffee, Sam. Care to join me?"

* * *

_El Beso_ is squeezed between an all-purpose Mom and Pop dry goods store (pots and pans, baptismal gowns, religious candles, tools) and a _Ritmo Latino_. No need for a juke box during the day – the music store blasts it loud enough to seep through the brick and stucco walls. And by night, Wednesday through Sunday, there's live _bandera_ or _reggaeton_ music blaring from the stage near the back of the small club.

When Alex walks in, the somber drinkers at the bar sit up a little straighter. The over-painted young women (whose shifts on the street won't start for hours) stop their catty back and forth in the booth along the wall. Their eyes follow the trim Salvadoran as he glides from the front door, snaking through tables and chairs, to the bar.

"_¿Qu__é__ tal,_ Alex? _¿C__ó__mo te va?"_ asks the meaty bartender, extending his hand across the worn wood.

Alex grasps the man's hand firmly, pumps it twice, holds it a second longer. "_Los monos están haciendo mucho ruido en la selva._ Is Eduardo here?"

The bartender motions with his head to the dark rear of the club.

Alex nods. _"Dos caf__é__s, por favor,"_ he says over his shoulder as he walks toward a small secluded area in the back.

Eduardo Flores looks aggrieved. Alex has known him for years, and he's always been a sullen man, but clearly the death of his sister has added to his heavy heart. He sits, shoulders slumped, tattooed arms stretched over the booth's table top; hands flat, fingers splay. _'La Vida'_ is inked into the back of one hand, _'La Raza'_ on the other.

"Eduardo," Alex says, and the other man rises.

They embrace, gripped hands pressed between them, fists pounding once, then twice, against the other's back.

"My deepest sympathies for you and your family, my friend."

"Thank you," Eduardo breathes into Alex's ear, then breaks the embrace and scoots back into the booth without looking at him.

Alex slides in opposite. "What can I do for you, Eduardo?"

The other man stays silent for a moment, fingertips resting on the table's smooth worn surface, palms tented. "You and me, Alex…" Eduardo's shaved head nods first at his right hand, then the left. "_The Life. The Race – The People_."

"Brothers."

"Competitors," Eduardo responds, with a calmness that belies the fire underneath it. He looks up, eyes bearing down on Alex's. "This morning I went to the city morgue and identified the body of my 19-year-old sister. My aunt broke down in the hallway, weeping. Begging God to take it back."

Alex knows this aunt, can imagine her. Can picture the strong, gruff woman - who had fed him on many occasions, had known his mother, in childhood, in El Salvador – wailing and pounding her fists against institutional linoleum. Alex knows her. Knew Graciela… He halts the sad cast his eyes want to make, refuses to show any weakness in front of Graciela Flores' only brother. Because he knows Eduardo is not here to grieve with him; Eduardo is here on business. Personal business. _The Life. The People_. "Talk to me, Eduardo."

The other man winds his fingertips across the table, skating them into a pattern of no real intent.

Alex follows the movement with his eyes, looking for some prophetic sign to confirm or dismiss the growing feeling in his gut; that he knows exactly why Eduardo is here.

"Jeff. Antonio. Carbonell."

_Jeff_. And it's like a reassuring fist clenching in his chest and a hard punch to his middle all at once. _I knew. I KNEW_. He knows now he should have trusted his intuition; his feelings that Jeff was out of control, power hungry. Looking to move up and move in to his place. "You believe he has something to do with Graciela's murder."

"He's been talking big, on our turf, selling your wares where he shouldn't be selling."

"You have to give me more than that, Eduardo, unless you're coming to me as anything other than a friend." It's cold and sharp but serves its purpose. Alex watches Eduardo straighten. Because Eduardo has come to ask for retribution; an eye for an eye, a soldier for a sister. In the end, it's business. _The life_. And it hurts Alex a tiny bit to know that always comes before _The People_ – because power corrupts even friendship. Even love.

Eduardo leans into the maroon leather of the high booth, pressing against the upholstered bench back. The padded red shrouds him like a robe of dark blood. "Jeff knew Graciela was muling for us. He threatened her twice when he saw her on del Sol. Second time got a little too friendly. I had some of my boys go talk to him."

"This was about a month ago?"

Eduardo nods and Alex answers with the same. He remembers Jeff coming into the shop one morning looking like he'd taken a few runs at a wall with his face. Jeff told him he'd gotten in a scrape at a bar with some asshole's slutty girlfriend. That he'd been drunk and stoned, and the guy had got the better of him. Had jumped him in the parking lot with a couple of homies to help.

"Her throat was slit, Alex. From ear to ear, clean and straight. Like a ribbon tied around her neck."

Alex flinches a little when Eduardo forces eye contact. _Yes_. Yes, they both know what it looks like when someone's throat has been slit. They'd seen it enough as boys, they'd done it enough themselves.

"You and me…" starts Eduardo, but his words catch and cut out as he leans his body forward, toward Alex.

The words don't need to be said. It's understood. It is what is; anyone who'd lived through the brutal wars in El Salvador like they had, anyone who'd experienced that first hand like they had… Killing with a gun is very different, Alex imagines, though he's never done it himself. But killing with a knife, with a machete, is close-up work. It's hands-on and personal. And it's born of either complete desperation or blind cruelty. People like Eduardo and Alex - who had been thrust into such desperate situations at such desperately young ages – escaped from El Salvador and vowed never to bloody their hands again.

It doesn't mean either of them are above employing others who have no problem with that type of work. Doesn't mean a smart leader – a good business man – doesn't place value on someone like Jeff, who lacks the conscience not to slide the blade.

_The Life. The People._

"Let me talk to him. Let me hear his story first, before you make a move."

Eduardo purses his lips and cocks his head to the side.

It's customary. It's proper. No leader is going to throw a strong, useful soldier into the arms of the opposing army unless they have good reason. You don't shoot your best dog just because he killed a couple of chickens.

"Twenty-four hours," Eduardo says finally. "While I make funeral arrangements for my little sister."

Alex bites down hard and holds back the words he wants to say. They won't have impact, he knows. You can't hold onto _The People_ while you live _The Life_. No matter how much you want or try or think you can.

Their hands meet over the table, their eyes over their hands.

"I'll call you as soon as I have a chance to discuss this with Jeff."

Eduardo disengages the handshake silently, pushes sideways off the table top with his hands, and slides out of the booth.

Alex watches him leave, brushing past the bartender who's entering with two cups of coffee. Alex is so intent on the drinks – needing to wash the conversation from his mouth – it's a moment before he notices the apologetic look on the bartender's face and the two police detectives standing behind him.

* * *

To be continued...


	9. Sonrisas

**Disclaimer:** While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving. 

**SPOILERS/Timeline:** Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'

**UNDYING GRATITUDE:** To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.

* * *

CHAPTER 9 - Sonrisas

"Alex Arrué?"

Alex knows they're police officers, knew the second he saw them. You never see two suits that ugly next to each other unless they're being worn by two cops. He slips on a non-threatening smile. "That's right. How can I help you gentlemen?"

Brass unpockets his shield, holds it up for Alex to see. "LVPD. I'm Detective Brass, this is Detective Vega," he says with a nod in Sam's direction.

Sam pulls out his badge, flashes it, tips his head back over his shoulder. "Was that a friend of yours?"

The corners of Alex's smile pull down. "No, actually. We just met a few minutes ago."

Jim motions to the two coffees the bartender had placed on the table before slinking back into the bar proper. "Sure we didn't interrupt anything?"

"No," says Alex. "Only making nice. Salesmen drop in on establishments like this – cold calling I think is the term – offering a service, looking for revenue; cleaning, bar supplies, condom machines for the bathroom."

"Yeah. He looked like a salesman," says Sam with a dry smile.

"He happen to leave a business card?" asks Jim.

"You know, he didn't have one to offer," says Alex, arms crossing over his chest.

"Not a very good salesman," says Jim with a raise of his brows.

"Which is why I won't be doing business with him."

_Oh, this kid's good. Quick and clever_. And though Jim clearly doesn't need Sam for translation - Arrué's English is clean and clear; Spanish accented, of course, with just the slightest hint of Castillian lisp - he's glad to have his buddy with him. Help keep him on his toes with this guy. It's been a long, LONG day.

Alex's smile returns and he spreads his arms wide. "So, detectives. What is it I can do for you?"

"A friend of a friend told us you might be able to help in an investigation," says Brass.

"Really? That's very interesting," says Alex, arms back to hugging his chest. "And who was this friend?"

Jim smiles impishly. "You know, he didn't leave a business card. Anyway, I couldn't tell you even if he had. Not without compromising an ongoing investigation."

"All right."

Jim continues on, because he's going to have to steer this ship. Nothing's leaving Alex Arrué's lips that isn't coaxed. "We were hoping you might have a little time to come down to the station. Have a chat?"

The young man's lips purse, then his smile reloads. He shifts his weight casually from foot to foot. "I have some time right now. I could get Miguel to bring some fresh coffee."

"'S a tempting offer. But, you know," Jim lifts his shoulders in coy apology. "A bar's not the best place to conduct a police interview. Doesn't look good in context."

"We could give you a lift," offers Sam. "Have a squad car bring you back here afterward," he finishes with a smile, folding his arms across his chest.

Alex's artificiality carries a veneer of sincerity. "It's a tempting offer," he mocks, "But I have my own car. I could meet you there in…"

The young man checks a watch on his wrist, one Jim knows if it ISN'T faux bling, would probably cost more than half of one of his own paychecks.

"In one hour? I have some business calls I need to make."

"Sure, sure. No problem. An hour would be great." Jim nods. "You need directions?"

Alex smiles and blinks. "I'm sure I can probably find it."

Jim _o_'s his lips like he's just come up with an idea, shows Alex his index finger, begging just a moment. He shoves his hand into his inside jacket pocket and comes out with a business card, copy of the one he'd given Ginny at the hospital. He hands it over to Alex like it's the new thing, all the rage. "My business card. In case you get lost." He gives Alex a wink.

Alex takes the card, lips once more pursed, as if the snide remarks he's holding back are trying to come out. "Thank you, detective," says the young man evenly, sliding Brass's card into his shirt pocket without looking at it. "I'll see you in an hour."

Both detectives nod, head back toward the front of the bar and the door there. Alex watches them go, hears the door close with a _whoosh_, and then pulls out his cell phone. "Freddy. It's Alex. Have you heard from Cohete, yet? ...Then send out some feelers. I want my cousin found. Bring him back to the shop and keep him there. And do something else for me. Make sure Jeff sticks around, too."

* * *

The realization of what Jeff's words mean--

"_Graciela, though…We sliced that _puta_ open good_."

--washes over Nick like a hot wave. Splashes right up from his toes in his boots, to the crown of his head. And then it heats up - gets REAL hot - and heads south. Settles in his groin. Throws some flying kicks at his stomach.

Because people like Jeff…

_I did my best._ He had. He'd kept his cool. He'd left clues in that_ mercado_. Evidence in the ally, in the truck. He'd kept it together when all he could hear in his head was: _Not again. Not again. No, no, no, no, no, no, NO. Not happening again_.

And then the weed and then Gordon and them KNOWING who he was. The look he'd seen flash across Warrick's face when he'd dropped that fact on his partner…how it mirrored, just briefly, that mantra of denial in Nick's head.

He'd done his best and kept his cool and HELD ON through the beating and the taunting and the pain. Through the taste of his own blood laid thick on his tongue like copperbutter.

But people like Jeff…

If he's admitting it, FLAUNTING it. To two CSIs? Nick knows he and Warrick are going to die. Because if their own team hasn't found them by now, maybe they're not GOING to find them. Maybe nobody's coming. And Jeff's not going to let them walk away. Not knowing what they know. Not now.

And - _oh, shitshitshit_ - Nick really doesn't want to die. Not like this. _Not like this_.

He turns his head as far to the left as he can, tries to scan past the ruby glow off the bridge of his nose with his right eye because he can't see shit from his left. And he can't see Warrick's face. Just Jeff's back and the back of his shaved head; the tattoos that wind across the skin there, the residual white lines and pocks of scars from some past injury.

But Nick knows the knife was in Jeff's hands a second ago – his neck is stinging like a sonuvuhbitch – and that means the knife is probably in his partner's face right now. "Hey, Warrick?"

And it's WEIRD. Because, first off, his voice doesn't sound like his own voice. It's quiet, and too low, and whispery, like dry corn husks. And then a voice responds to his call, and it's not Warrick's at ALL. It's Jeff's. And Nick can't see either of their faces, can't see their lips move. For a dizzy little minute in his head, he's not sure who's really talking.

"Graciela was a little whore. Stepping onto my turf. Selling her drugs and pretending her body was somehow part of the deal. I'm not stupid. Anybody I sell to would rather buy their shit from a slutty little bitch who's flashing her tits and wetting her lips. Making promises she had no intention of keeping. You think I'm gonna let her keep doing that? Stealing my customers?"

"So you slit her throat over money?"

And that's DEFINITELY Warrick's voice. Warrick's anger and disgust.

"She was disrespecting me. My business, my territory. Disrespecting my boundaries."

Nick's kind of confused and thrown off because his brain won't stay on whatever power struggle is happening between Jeff's words and Jeff's knife and Warrick's mouth. Nick's brain gets stuck on territory. BOUNDARIES. Because – _oh, fuck, yeah_ – he understands about boundaries being crossed. He's had a bit of practice with that concept a few times before, and he GETS IT. He gets building walls and bricking up windows and posting signs that say 'Back the Hell AWAY'.

"_La Vida_ gets played with respect. You got to follow the rules. Know your place. Dog stays in its own yard or the leash squeezes off its oxygen."

_Motherfucker!_ Where did this son of a bitch get off talking about BOUNDARIES and RESPECT? _Have you seen my goddamned FACE? All because I was lookin' out for a friend? Because I tried to protect a mom and her kid? _What's he ever done to bring this kind of curse down on himself?

Nick faces forward, leans his head back until it rests against the wall, pulls up an inch or two, and then lets his skull crash back against the cinderblock. The hot little stars that pop behind his eyes are like sparklers, and serve as just enough distraction from the heat of pain everywhere else. Because here he is again; lines all crossed, barriers ignored. Right here and now. And this time, his goddamned Stokes luck has his best friend wrapped up, too. _Aw, man, Warrick. I don't wanna BE here. _

_We shouldn't BE here. _

_YOU shouldn't be here_…

"Hey, Jeff." And this time his voice sounds a little more like his own. A little louder. A little less like dead corn and more like determination. "Hey, Jeff," Nick grinds out once again, getting the banger to swivel in his direction, "Why don't you shut the fuck up?"

* * *

Jim approaches the front desk, and the sergeant on duty points a finger over to the seats.

Arrué is sitting with his legs casually crossed, head leaning back against the wall; the picture of relaxation. He's twirling a key fob around his finger like he's not a possible suspect in the kidnapping of two CSIs. _Smug punk._ "Mr. Arrué," Jim says as he walks over, hand extended, friendly like.

Alex stands, shakes Jim's hand, and smiles. "Detective Brass."

"It's kinda noisy out here. You'd probably find it more comfortable in my office," he offers, gesturing with a wave of his hand towards the back of the station.

Alex imitates the motion. "After you," he says, and follows the captain into the maze of hallways that comprise the LVPD.

They wind their way past the assorted dregs crowding the halls; the tattooed, the strung out. Some still bleeding, some crying. Jim nods his head at a uni giving him the stink eye and hopes Arrué doesn't notice. As Brass leads them around a corner to the left, they're forced to step aside and let by two deputies flanking a prisoner in an orange jumpsuit. Jim's nose twitches as Cohete is walked past, but he doesn't miss the quick widening eyes The Human Rocket makes at the presence of Alex next to him. Cohete is their closest link to the missing CSIs, and Alex apparently knows him.

They reach Jim's office, dull gold-colored nameplate on the door. Alex glances at the engraving and then reappraises Jim. "You said you were a detective, Captain."

"And you're a businessman, right?" asks Jim with a thick layer of put upon sincerity. He doesn't wait for a reply, just steps into the small boxy space, moves behind his desk, and motions for Alex to sit in one of the cheap chairs opposite. He cranks his chin in the direction of the hallway. "That somebody you know?"

"Excuse me?"

"The guy in the hall... Seemed like you knew him, or he knew you..."

"You seem to think I know a lot of people, Captain."

Jim smiles, eases himself onto his chair. "A successful businessman like yourself, club owner. Ties to the community…" Jim lets it dangle a moment. "You're, uh, Salvadoran, right?

Alex crosses his legs, tugs down his pant leg over his ankle. "I was born in El Salvador. Yes."

"The gentleman in the hall… He's from El Salvador, too." Jim churches his fingers over his desk blotter. "Course, he's not a…successful businessman. In fact, he's not really successful at anything except running out on his friends and flapping his gums."

"You probably run into that a lot, in your line of work. Me?" says Alex, bringing his hand to his chest, "Not so much. I get to choose who I work with."

Jim pauses, smile on the outside frozen into what he hopes doesn't look as stiff as it feels. There's no way Arrué could know about his troubles. It's just a jab. A mindless LUCKY stab in the dark.

Alex drops his hand on his knee, pulling the detective from his thoughts. "What is it, exactly, I can do for you, Captain? I wasn't quite clear about your need to talk to me."

"Like I said, back at the bar. I have some friends ran into some real baddies. Part of the, uh, Salvadoran community. Word is, you're a big cheese. Thought maybe you might have some information. Some connections that could help."

"We are a close community, but… Other than the trouble that I heard about on TV - the shoot out that happened a few blocks from my club - I really couldn't tell you anything else."

"The shoot out. Yeah. That's where it 'went down', as they say. See, my friends and I were nearby, looking into the murder of a teenage girl. Beautiful kid. She'da broken a lotta hearts, believe me. Real tragedy."

Alex shifts, almost imperceptibly in his seat. "I hadn't heard it was a woman killed. That's terrible. But, as I said, I only heard about it on TV. I was at my other place of business this morning. Year end fiscal reports are coming up," he finishes with a tight smile.

"Yeah, paperwork. Same in any job, huh? So there we were, trying to find clues to tell us who killed this poor kid, when we hear gunfire down the block. We showed up, bullets were flyin' every which way - was a real war zone, let me tell you."

"That's a shame, Captain. It really is. I'm still not clear why you think I'd know anything about this."

"Oh, I'm getting to that. So, the guns are goin' off and there's this kid and his mom. Jesus, the boy had to be no more than four. Cute little kid. Sponge Bob t-shirt, Kool-Aid mustache. You have any kids?"

"No."

"Oh. Me, I have a daughter. Teenager, hah. Cant tell 'em anything. Anyway, this kid's in the middle of this crossfire. His mom gets shot, she's bleeding, crying. And the kid…" Jim pauses, and the drama in his voice is only partly put-on. "The kid breaks away, wanders into the middle of the frickin' battle. And my friends? They break cover and go rescue the mom and kid both. It was really somethin' to see."

"Sounds very brave. You have heroic friends."

"Yeah. Yeah, only what they get for their heroics is to get grabbed by a couple scumbags. MS-13 scumbags. Salvadoran scumbags."

Alex uncrosses his legs, sets his feet shoulder-width apart. He leans forward, forearms on his thighs. "You know, Captain? One of the hardest things to adjust to when I came to this country was the look. The look you get when you're different - not like everyone else around you. Sometimes, because you're different, people push you into a group you don't necessarily belong to." Alex lifts his hand to his face, taps his index finger against his tear drop tattoo. "You make a foolish mistake as a kid, people think you're that kid forever. I tried to learn a lesson from that. I don't believe all whites are judgmental racists, just like I hope all cops don't think all Salvadorans are scumbags."

Jim quickly raises both hands and shakes his head. "No, no, of course not. But if these…suspects…are part of the community… Perhaps you might have a way of finding out who they are?"

The I'm-your-pal smile that's been plastered onto Arrué's face since he shook Jim's hand falters just a bit. Barely noticeable.

"Again, Captain, I'm a business man. I run a successful club, an upholstery shop. My heart and a lot of my money are in the community. But I don't associate with… Salvadoran scumbags."

_Oh, the kid is good_. Usually, Jim can hold out a little admiration for this kind of skill. But he's not feeling generous. He sighs, slumps back in his chair, tired of all the banter. "You trying to tell me, you can run a club, own a shop - where I assume you employ Salvadoran labor, have all these ties to your community, but you can't think of a single person who might know someone who knows a scumbag who might have kidnapped two LVPD cops?"

Alex is quiet for a beat, a little longer than makes Jim comfortable, while the younger man's eyes roll over him.

"I came to this country as a young man, after witnessing horrors in my home country. I love my people, I love El Salvador. And I would go back in a heartbeat if the troubles didn't always brew just below the surface. I came here to make a good life for myself. To seize opportunity."

_Oh, this kid is REAL good._ Jim is this close to believing him. Sincerity oozes out of every pore on the guy's frame.

"I became a citizen, I worked hard, made friends and connections with other of my countrymen living here. Hard-working people. It's possible I could speak to some of them. There's a chance, I suppose, that someone may know...something. I can't promise you anything."

Thirty years on the force has gifted Jim with a grade-A bullshit meter. And it's ringing to beat the band. He pastes a smile on his face, matches Arrué's sincerity, mask for mask. "Well, anything you can do would be appreciated, Sir. The men who were kidnapped, they're good men. I'd hate to think what would happen if they got hurt."

Alex rises and returns Jim's false smile. Mirrors him dimple for dimple. "I'll do what I can. Put my ear to the ground, as they say."

Jim stands and smiles. "Maybe you could put your ear to a phone? Maybe make some calls. I hate to rush you…" his smile broadens. "But time is kinda pressing."

"I'm a busy man, Captain. Las Vegas is a busy city. I mean, you understand that, I understand that… I know my community understands that. Definitely understood it this morning on Puesta del Sol, when it took the police so long to respond." Alex folds his hands, shakes his head. "I'm sorry about your officers. As soon as I can, I'll see what my associates have to say. What they've heard."

This is the second dig at what Jim was certain it couldn't be about, but undoubtedly is. He steps around his desk, eager to get this man - this THUG - out of his office. His sanctuary. Why the hell he didn't use the interrogation room is one of many regrets he's had since a dawn spent staring at a dead teenaged girl. "That's all we ask, Mr. Arrué."

"Are we through, then?"

"Oh, yeah."

Alex smiles. Grins, really. Extends a hand to Jim. "If anything comes my way, I'll be sure to let you know, Captain."

Jim ignores the hand, makes a show of digging out his cell phone. "Calls to make of my own, you understand. And when you put the word out? To the community, I mean? Make sure they realize that the death of an LVPD cop means the needle here in Nevada. Like you said, it's a small tight-knit community. Word gets around. People talk. In fact, there's a program we have. An outreach, if you will. With the Mexican community, their 'social clubs'. They'll probably be of great assistance."

He snorts out a clipped laugh, happy with where his train of thought is taking him. "Hell, you can probably forget your calls. Thanks anyway for coming down. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?"

Alex's grin drops a fraction. His nostrils flare.

Jim cracks his cell, looks intently at the keypad. "Sorry. Like I said, outreach. Calls to make." He extends his hand almost casually, like an afterthought. "I really appreciate you coming in, especially with your busy schedule."

Alex takes the detective's hand, pumps it once limply and turns to go as Jim speaks into his cell.

"Hey, Vega. Brass. Wanted to know if you were able to get anything out of that punk you pulled in… Yeah, the one fleeing the shoot out this morning."

Alex pauses in the doorway, his back to Jim.

Jim covers the phone and pulls it away from his mouth. "Was there something else, Mr. Arrué?"

"No, Captain. Nothing at all." The young man falls back into step.

Jim takes a little too much pleasure in the momentary confusion as Alex heads first one way, then the other, forgetting which hallway they'd come down. A small chuckle escapes as he swings the door shut and slumps against it, lowering the dead phone to his hip. After a few breaths he pulls up, heads to his desk, and drops heavily into his chair. There's a bottle of Glenfiddich in the bottom drawer calling his name, but alcohol makes Jim a sleepy boy. He ignores the call of the malt, and instead picks up desk phone receiver. Punches in a few numbers and waits. "Hey, Sam? It's Brass. You get anything else off that stoolie punk on your second go-round?"

* * *

_Oh, Nick, man. PLEASE._

Jeff and the knife swivel toward Nick, but there's no time for Warrick to take a breath of relief. _I was tryin' to get you a break, Nicky. What the hell you doin'?_

"Jesus Christ, _weto_! You got to be the stupidest, most stubborn white man I ever met – and I met a lot."

"You don't get it, man," Nick says, eyes closed to the blade in front of his face.

"Nick." _Be quiet. Please._

"What don't I get, cop?"

"You didn't have to tell us anything. There probably wasn't enough evidence to lead back to you anyway. You're confessin' to a murder you coulda got away with."

Nick's right, Warrick knows. And it takes him a second to realize why Nick's doing what he's doing. Saying what he's saying. At first Warrick can only curse because he sees the look of indignation on Jeff's face. Sees the anger rise up behind it.

"You fucked up when you took us instead of just leavin' that store. You coulda walked away and--"

Nick's words are cut off by a vicious blow to his gut. He doubles over, pulling in a breath that's twined tightly with a moan.

And then Warrick's anger flares, because it clicks that Nick is making himself the focus again. Trying desperately to pull Jeff's attention to him and take whatever punishment may come before they get rescued. _If we get rescued._

"You know what, cop?" says Jeff, pulling up Nick's head by the longer hairs in front. He lays the blade across Nick's neck and leans into his personal space. "I was going to kill you quick. But I think now it would be more fun to go slow. Real slow. You're gonna beg me to kill you."

_Oh, fuck_. It's not about rationality anymore. Any chance of any semblance of clear thinking – from ANYONE – is obviously gone. Warrick wants to be thankful for the implied extra time, but thinks better of it. Because he can't sit here and watch his best friend bleed. Can't listen to his rough breaths and not go crazy.

"Jeff!"

The voice comes from out in the warehouse; loud and strong and full of ill-intent.

"Oh, _mierda_," utters Rabbit, and hops down from the material bolts.

Warrick doesn't think the banger's jittery dance is just because he still has to pee. That voice calling Jeff's name belongs to Alex. And the tone of it doesn't bode well for Jeff at all. Which could – _maybe, please, PLEASE_ – bode well for Nick and Warrick.

The door to the store room slams open. Alex fills the frame, fury coming off him in waves. Rabbit makes a small noise in his throat and takes a step closer to Jeff, who stands and turns to face the tall gang leader.

"_Maldito imbécil hijo de perra._ You greedy little animal. I should have known not to trust you. You need a brain to be trustworthy."

The knife jumps and twists in Jeff's white-knuckled fist, sending off glimmers like laser beams around the small store room.

* * *

To be continued...


	10. Malestar

**Disclaimer:** While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving.

**SPOILERS/Timeline:** Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'

**UNDYING GRATITUDE:** To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.

* * *

"Catherine, come join us." 

She's almost past the door when Jim's voice stops her. She enters slowly, head cocking as if she can't believe what she's seeing.

"What are you guys doing?" Her voice rises as her eyes narrow.

"Eating sandwiches. C'mon, I thought your investigative skills were better than that."

She comes over to the table, places her hands on the back of an empty chair and scans the layout in front of her.

Styrofoam clam shells are open, showing thick drippy sandwiches. Shredded lettuce litters the table top like confetti, and two bags of chips bookend the spread. Catherine opens her mouth to say more when Sam breezes by her, taking a seat next to Jim and popping open another container from the pile.

Jim looks up to see Catherine has planted her hands on her hips and has whipped herself into full righteous indignation mode. He holds up a hand, the other wiping mustard from the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin. "Cath, please. Sit. We're all on our third shift and I haven't eaten since…" He thinks back briefly, mulling as he chews. "Shit, I dunno. A long time. We can talk while we eat. Share what we've got?" She stares at him for the briefest of moments and Jim can tell she's wavering.

Her eyes are on the food, then they flick over to Gil, sitting at the head of the table, prepping his own sandwich with a squeezy packet of mayo.

Gil looks up and nods, juts his chin at the empty chair, then resumes working at the tinfoil package.

Jim waits until he sees Catherine's hands pulling out the chair before turning to Sam. "You think it'd be worth it if I took a poke at our rat? Run him on the wheel?"

Sam shakes his head and opens his bread to adjust a wayward chunk of avocado. He licks his fingers clean before closing it back up. "I threw everything I got at the guy. The best he can gimme is that he knows this Arrué guy is the Grand Poobah of the Sol Set."

"He knows, huh? And how exactly does he know this?"

Sam laughs and shakes his head. "This guy's not the sharpest tool in the shed, as evidenced by how we picked him up. But he tells me he hears things."

Jim lowers the sandwich poised at his lips. "So we're going by what this asshole hears?"

"I think the guy's on the up an' up. He seems perfectly willing to flap his gums about the Set, it's just that he doesn't really have anything we're interested in hearing. I don't think he was too far up the food chain, his _Capitan_ title notwithstanding."

"So no matter what we throw at him…"

"He's got nothing more to trade with," Sam finishes for him with a confirming nod. "Soon as I finish up here I'm headed over to booking. We'll wrap him up and send him on over." He chuckles again and shakes his head. "You know, I don't now if this guy's got _cajones _the size of melons or if he's just plain _loco_. The Thirteen don't take kindly to snitches." A sigh and a shrug and Sam mutters almost to himself. "Gonna have to let the transfer guys from the pen know about this. Make sure they keep him on a block away from the Salvadorans."

Jim nods and takes another bite of his sandwich.

Catherine is seated but still looks huffy.

"Whatsamatter, Cath? I got you what you always order. Turkey, no cheese, no mayo, extra greenery."

Catherine ponders her dry, wimpy looking lunch. She stares at the other half of Jim's. "What did you get?"

"Reuben," he says with a swallow. He pulls his lunch a little closer at the predatory look she gives it.

She makes a little pout, pushing out her lips, then turns to where Gil has just finally finished the meticulous construction of his lunch.

_Guy's anal about EVERYTHING_, Jim thinks with a smile.

"What about you, Gil?"

"What about me, Catherine?" Gil asks with a cocked eyebrow.

"Your lunch," she says with a pointed look at the same.

"Turkey club," Gil answers cautiously, weighing the response it will get.

Jim laughs around a mouthful of Reuben as he sees Catherine honest to God BATTING HER EYELASHESat Gil.

With the practiced response of a long married, put-upon husband, Gil sighs and shoves his sandwich over on its paper wrapper.

Catherine smiles brightly, then considers for a moment before pushing half of it back. "Thanks, Gil."

"Now that we got the sandwich sitch sorted out, you guys got anything else to add to the investigation?"

Catherine scowls and finishes chewing. "I pulled a print off the throwaway phone. At first, I didn't bother checking the battery case since…well, it's a throwaway. But someone, at some time, opened it up, and I got a partial thumb off the inside. That was hours ago. Ecklie swore his Days guy would make it his number one priority. Damn, I wish Mandy had stayed on."

"She was on her third shift, Catherine," Gil reminds her quietly.

"We all are, Gil!" she snaps back at him. She drops her sandwich half to the paper in disgust and rises from her char.

"I'm gonna go light a fire under that asshole's chair, I swear to God--"

"Speak of the Devil," Jim mutters under his breath as Conrad rounds the corner, out of breath and clutching a sheaf of paperwork.

"Conrad, you promised--"

"I did, Catherine, I know," Conrad says with a solemn nod of his head. "I just came from the print lab. The Days guy I thought would be in wasn't, and the message didn't make it over to him."

"What the --? Damn it, Conrad! You should have had Mandy and the rest of Grave stay on. We don't mess up. We're better than this. We have to be. My God, don't you--?"

"I couldn't keep them on, Catherine. I can't have lab personnel running into quadruple shifts. They'll make errors."

"Errors? Like not knowing that the prints we need to find Nick and Warrick take priority?"

Conrad flinches but then straightens. "It's still a lab, Catherine. And we can't jeopardize all the other cases that are being processed."

He slumps then, plays with his tie and Jim takes in Conrad's decidedly rumpled appearance. Jim's only a few years older than the Director, but Conrad's looking grey and old, dark bags the only color in his pale, pasty face.

"If it's any consolation, I'm starting shift number four," Conrad mutters.

Catherine's expression barely softens and she's revving up for more. Jim figures he owes the guy. "Hey, Conrad. What's the word on the prints?"

"I ran them myself," the Director says, holding out the paperwork. "Name came back to a Jeff Antonio Carbonell."

There's an odd choking sound from next to Jim and he turns to see Sam swallowing down a mouthful and sipping hurriedly at his can of soda.

"What? You know this hump?" Jim asks.

Sam wipes his mouth and tosses the crumpled napkin on the table. "Jesus, yeah," he breathes. "I heard he was running with the Sol Set. Couldn't ever pin anything on him, but I've run across his purported victims a few times…" Sam shakes his head solemnly and leans back from the table. "He likes his knives. Word on the street is the guy's a real psycho."

The pronouncement casts a damper over their attempt at a meal. Catherine goes quiet and even Gil seems distracted, off someplace inside his own head.

Conrad moves to leave when Catherine turns in her chair and places a hand on his arm.

The Director stiffens as if awaiting a blow, looks down at her hand, then up at her face. "I'm not a bad man, Catherine. It's just--"

"Have a seat and a sandwich, Conrad," Catherine says. "You look like hell."

He nods and pulls out a chair at the table.

Catherine smiles and pushes over the turkey, no cheese, no mayo, extra greenery sandwich she'd rejected earlier. Gives him a brisk smile.

Gil's pager goes off and he eyes the readout. "Archie got something off the phone."

The group rises as one, save Ecklie. Chair legs squawking on the tile floor as they're shoved back. Jim tosses a look behind him as they hurry to the AV lab.

Conrad sits at the table, staring at the empty room, then picks up the sandwich and begins to chew.

* * *

The four of them crowd into the small lab where Archie sits in front of a computer screen, a giddy smile on his face. 

"I finally got a response to the warrant issued to the Tracfone people to release the voicemails stored on their server for the phone Catherine found in the truck. There were three stored messages, and one new one. The first three were pretty simple. _'My name is Maria. Call me' _kindsa stuff that even I can figure out with my high school Spanish. But the newer one is from last night."

He glances up at Sam, and shrugs. "Care to translate for us?"

Sam just waves his hands at the tech to hurry it up and Archie plays the keys on his computer, pulling up a sound file and hitting play.

"_Estoy en la tienda. Dónde diablos te metiste? Se suponía que ibas a aparecer hace dos horas. Vente para acá ahora. No trates de culear conmigo, Jeff."_

Sam hunches over and puts his ear closer to the speaker. "Can you play it for me again?"

Archie maneuvers the mouse and restarts the recording.

The message replays, and Sam nods and stands straighter. "Says, _'I'm at the shop. You were supposed to be here two hours ago. Don't,_ uh….'" He glances at Catherine "_'…don't fuck with me, Jeff_.'"

_That lisp_… Jim is already nodding his head, confirming for himself the frisson of recognition he'd gotten from the first play through. "That's Alex Arrué."

"You can tell from that?" Catherine asks doubtfully.

"Hell, yeah. That hissy goddamned 's'?. Spent half an hour goin' toe to toe with this asshole in my office not more than an hour ago. We danced, took turns leading… I got nothin' but a headache outta it, so, yeah, I know that voice, and it's Alex Arrué."

"The shop he mentions," Gil prods. "Do we have any idea what that might be?"

Jim rubs hand over his tired eyes. The day's events are already starting to blur, even overlapping with _that_ day in October. Gunfire and chaos and guilt and worry and fear. All only seen, only recognized in flashes of memory, like individual frames lifted from a movie.

"_Captain, I'm a business man. I run a successful club, an upholstery shop…"_

Jim snaps his fingers. "Damn! He DID mention a shop. An upholstery shop."

"So that's a connection between Arrué and this psycho, Jeff Carbonell? Are we thinking Jeff is the one who has the boys?" Catherine asks. "Or Arrué?"

"Doesn't matter," Jim cuts in. "They're connected. If Arrué has Carbonell on the payroll, as his first mate, number one, whatever the hell they call him…"

"We won't get a warrant based on a phone call and the names. We need more," Gil reasons in a calm voice that sets Jim's teeth on edge.

Another step closer, and another wall thrown up in their faces. He balls his fist at his side, releasing his hand only to work at the knots in the back of his neck. He lets out an explosive breath. "Oookay. So. Archie, we got anything else?"

But the tech isn't listening. He has headphones on and is a study in concentration. Eyes squeezed shut, his fingers blindly working the mouse in well practiced motion.

His eyes pop open suddenly and he pulls the headphones off, dropping them onto the lab table and spinning around on his chair with a look of pure _eureka!_

"Jets."

"Come again," Jim asks.

"Jets. There are jets on the voicemail." He turns back to the computer and hits play. This time the voice track has been removed and the only noise is background. As they hold their breath and wait, the whooshing sound of a jet engine taking off fills the room, quickly followed by a second.

"Is that from McCarran?" Gil asks.

Archie shakes his head. "Not a commercial jet. No, this is smaller. Faster." He closes his eyes again for a second, then smiles. "Sounds like a Raptor."

Jim shakes his head. "Those the things in Jurassic Park?"

"F-22s. Nellis Air Force Base has a whole squadron of these babies. Stealth fighters. And that's the type of engine we're hearing."

Catherine trades incredulous looks with Gil, then plants her hands on her hips. "We need an upholstery shop near Nellis Air Force Base. Archie can you do your thing?"

The AV tech ducks his head down and starts to work, pecking away at his keyboard.

"I have to be the voice of reason," Gil says with a sad sigh.

"Yes, Gil, we know. Still not enough for a warrant."

Jim just shrugs and turns to Sam. "Warrant? We don't need no stinkin' warrant. Nothing says a man can't treat his Taurus to some new seat covers."

* * *

The knife shakes and then stills in Jeff's grip as Alex steps into the storeroom. Rabbit curls around the two adversaries and out the door, escaping like a scared…rabbit. Nick almost laughs. 

_Peter Cottontail wriggling under Mr. MacGregor's fence_.

And then he's doing a mental facepalm, because he should be able to focus, right? This is intense, right? That's his blood he can taste in his mouth, isn't it? _That's my blood on the tip of that knife_…

"Hey, Alex. What's up?"

And then Nick's remembering another storybook from his childhood: _Rikki Tikki Tavi._

Three days ago, he'd caught a nature documentary which included a showdown between a king cobra and a mongoose. It had been difficult to watch; brutal in a way that had reminded him too much of work and struggle and trying to survive. But he'd watched it. Couldn't not.

So he's COMPLETELY freaked out and ridiculously amused when he sees Alex and Jeff coiling and posturing around each other like a snake and a bottlebrush-tailed rat. Nick's just not sure who's Rikki Tikki and who's Nag.

Alex steps even closer to Jeff, and the knife glints like a flint spark.

"You know where I just came from, _zaguate culeado_? From the Las Vegas Police Department." Alex hisses.

Hope that feels like sunlight blooms in Nick's chest.

"From half an hour in the stuffy little office of Captain of detectives. Answering questions about this morning's incident in our neighborhood."

_Oh, goddamnit Jim Brass, I love you_. Nick feels the pressure of Warrick's shoulder against his own. _Yeah, bro. I heard that._

"And do you know how I wound up there, _pelon_? Because two police detectives came to my club. Walked into _El Beso_ and asked for me by name."

Jeff's head twitches, chin leading a little to the right and then back. It's a non-committal shrug.

Warrick presses into Nick's shoulder again, and when Nick cranes his neck to look at him, Warrick tilts his head toward the far end of the storeroom.

"And maybe the best part – lo máximo - guess who I saw at the police station, Jeff?" Alex doesn't give him time to answer. "My cousin. I walked past Cohete as they were leading him down the hallway in handcuffs."

Jeff titters. Shakes his head and blows out a breath. "_Tu primo es un estúpido de mierda._ Fools like him get caught."

At first Nick doesn't see what Warrick's trying to get him to see. But after a few seconds, he can make out the shape of a door behind a couple of stacks of boxes.

"Bichito's in the hospital, shot by a cop. My cousin is in police custody on charges I don't even know about. And I'm called in for questioning? And then, here you are, Jeff."

"How you gonna make this about me, huh?"

Alex leans around Jeff, takes in Nick and Warrick on the floor. One side of his mouth lifts in a snarl. "This is your work, isn't it?"

"My work. Your orders."

Alex glares back at Jeff. "My orders. You taking orders from me, now?"

"Right now?" Jeff challenges.

"Was it my order to slit Graciela Flores's throat?" Alex's words are sharp as a blade.

And Jeff answers in kind.

Nick's just looking back from a possible escape route when everything explodes in red. "Nooo!"

The knife in Jeff's hand flies forward, slashing across Alex's middle, left to right. It's horrible, terrifying, the most awfulbrutal thing Nick's seen this close up. He hears Warrick utter '_Oh, shit'_.

Alex's mouth opens; wide and round and black as an eight ball.

The knife slices back the other way, and Nick feels a few drops of wetness smack against his face.

Alex drops to his knees, jaw working like an old pump arm. Eyes wide as moons, hands - painted crimson - pressed against his opened belly. Jeff leans in, looms over the other man, and grabs him by the hairs on the crown of his head.

Nick can't look away. _Nothing. This is nothing to him_…

Jeff pulls back Alex's head, knife drawn back across his chest. "Who's _el jefe_ now, _pelon_?" he says, and runs the blade across Alex's neck, like reaping dead wheat.

Nick hears – _oh, my God_ – Nick HEARS the arterial spray spatter against the cinderblock wall, splash against the cardboard boxes stacked there.

When Jeff lets go of Alex's hair, the gang leader falls to the side; head thunking hollowly against the concrete floor, eyes still open, mouth a breathless _'o'_.

Nick's breathing in short little gasps. Warrick, too. Nick can hear it. When Jeff straightens and turns on them, there's a stutter in their intakes of oxygen. _Nothing clean about Jeff's t-shirt anymore. _It's stained and splattered; red with blood.


	11. Falência

**Disclaimer:** While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving.

**SPOILERS/Timeline:** Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'

**UNDYING GRATITUDE:** To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.

**_NOTE: The last two chapters will post on Tuesday and Friday of next week, instead of Monday and Thursday. Thanks for your understanding and readership._**

* * *

CHAPTER 11 – **Falência**

Nick knows this look. He's SEEN it, up-close and personal. More than once. When Jeff straightens and turns on them, Nick sees the blankness on Jeff's face – an absence of conscious thought, fringed with intent. This is a dangerous face. A truly deadly affect.

Nick doesn't breath for a second, eyes flicking between Jeff's face, Jeff's knife, Alex's vacant dead eyes. Suddenly, Warrick's in front of him, has physically moved over to shield him from Jeff; shoulder against Nick's chest, pinning him to the wall. It hurts in too many ways; physically, emotionally, mentally: _Not like this. No, no, no, no, PLEASE. Not like this._

The door behind Jeff – the one that leads out to the upholstery shop's main warehouse – slams open. Rabbit flies in, face more panicked than when he left. "Alex! We got a big problem! " And then the jumpy banger skitters to a stop and stills, toe of his tennis shoe inches from the spreading pool of maroon beneath _el jefe_. "Oh, fuck…"

Jeff spins on him. "_Cierre la puerta!_ Fuck! Close the goddamned door, Conejo!"

Rabbit does. Retreats two steps until his back rests against it. He crosses himself, eyes full on Alex. "Jesus, Jeff. What the fuck did you do?"

_What the hell does it look like he did?_ "Oh, God," Nick mutters, and it's only the weight of his best friend's protection – Warrick's shoulder holding him back, and safe – that keeps the other words at bay. _He killed him. What does it look like he did?_

Jeff closes in on Conejo, knife – still wet with blood – jumping in his right fist. "I just got us out from under Graciela Flores and Alex Arrué, both."

Rabbit's eyes dart between Jeff and Alex, between Jeff and Nick and Rick. His head shakes violently left and right. "But…but the cops--"

"They're dead. _Est__á__n muertos_.

Nick's mind explodes with neon green light. _No, no, no…_

Rabbit's eyes go to Nick and Warrick again, then back to Jeff. "What about Eduardo?"

"Fuck Eduardo."

"He's here."

"What?"

Nick sees Jeff's fingers tighten around the hilt of the knife. Warrick adjusts slightly against his chest, turns his head and whispers over his shoulder.

"Nick, man. You gotta calm down. You're gonna hyperventilate. Just calm down for me, a'ight, bro?"

Nick manages to nod his head, but nothing more.

"He's here," repeats Rabbit. "Eduardo's here with a coupla his crew. Says he wants to talk to you."

"_Hijo de perra."_

"Jeff, man," Rabbit whines, eyes once more on the very dead Alex, "What are we gonna do?"

Jeff bounces twice on the balls of his feet. Looks down at Alex and then back to Rabbit. "Who we got here?"

"I can't believe you killed him, _pelon_. I can't believe you killed _el jefe_."

Jeff's left hand flies up, grabbing Rabbit's narrow jaw and pulling his face away from Alex. "I'm _el jefe_, now. _Yo soy_. Now, who do we got here, Conejo?"

Rabbit's bloodshot eyes roll in their sockets. He's an animal caught in a trap. And if the trap weren't clamped on his jaw, Nick thinks, the animal would chew through its leg to get out.

"Uh…" Rabbit grinds out from under Jeff's grip. "We got Freddy and Joker and Hector and Little Juan… Oh, 'Nardo is here. So's Tiny and Willy."

Jeff nods like he's running the list mentally. His hand drops from Rabbit's jaw and fists in his shirt. "Everybody packing?"

"Yeah."

"Okay," says Jeff, some decision reached in his head. "You stick with me," he finishes, and makes to open the door.

"But what about…" Rabbit motions behind them with a wave that encompasses Alex and Nick and Warrick.

Jeff turns, floats his eyes over all three, and smiles. "_Cad__á__veres_. They're just corpses. They're not going anywhere."

* * *

"Alright, easy there, Bogey."

"Actually, Catherine, it was Alfonso Bedoya that says that line in _Treasure of the Sierra Madre_. See, Bogart says --"

"Yeah, thanks for the edification, Gil. But I'd still like to see if we can get enough for a warrant. The thought of this asshole getting away with anything …"

"Archie?" Jim breaks in. "You doin' that voodoo that you do so well?"

The A/V tech just nods as his fingers continue to fly over his keyboard. "I'm doing a Dun & Bradstreet search. Alright, I'm in. How do you spell this Alex guy's name?"

Jim turns to Sam who smiles and spells out Alex's full given name.

Four heads peer over Archie's shoulder as he enters the information, but the tech never wavers in his focus on page after page of tiny black print on a blank white screen.

Catherine paws for the reading glasses that hang on the chain around her neck, as Gil pushes his own glasses closer to his eyes.

Jim just eases back and starts pacing the small lab. He wants to bounce on his toes, shake the kinks out like a boxer in his corner before the big bout. They're closer - so much closer. He can feel it. He understands the need for the warrant, knows that cutting corners leads to dead ends in the courtroom. But he still has to fight the urge to grab Sam by the arm and bodily haul him out to the parking lot and drive somewhere. Do something. SHOOT something.

"Alright, I think I got something," Archie says, snapping Jim back in place with his friends behind the tech's shoulder.

Archie leans back in his chair. "Arrué shows as the sole officer of a corporation called Sol Rey, Inc. That corporation in turn, owns approximately…" He scrolls down the page. "…a handful of companies in the Vegas area. Hang on."

He plays the keyboard some more, then grimaces. "The companies then each show as owners of various businesses. I can't narrow them down by type; I'll just have to pull each of them up to see what kind of business they're registered as doing."

Jim sighs explosively and resumes pacing as Archie starts at the top of the list. An idea - so ludicrous, so out there it makes him bark out a tight laugh - sparks in his head, and Jim actually hesitates voicing it. "See if Carbonell comes up on any of the companies. Like a cross match; hit for both names."

Archie nods and enters the info, his nod quickly taking over his whole body. He smiles and points at the screen. "One hit. Carbonell shows as VP of a company called Vegas Tapiceria."

Sam hits Jim sharply on the arm. "That's upholstery, my friend!"

"Archie--" Gil starts.

But the tech is way ahead of him, feeding the business address into Google Maps. A red thumbtack forms over the gridded street map.

"It butts right up against Nellis," Catherine breathes as if afraid to say it out loud. But the tack isn't moving- it clearly shows the boundaries of the Air Force base running right along the industrial street where the shop is located.

Archie clicks the mouse and the map is replaced by a satellite view of the property.

A small cluster of buildings, all grey and blocky, squats at the end of a long road running off the interstate. A parking area with tractor trailers and box trucks sits in front. And a thin line that could be a fence cuts off the property from the vast paved expanse where Nellis's airstrips begin, about a half mile farther. Everything in between is desert.

"How current is this, Archie?" Gil asks.

The tech shrugs. "Probably a year or so old."

Gil, Archie, and Catherine continue to talk quietly while Jim steps to the side and pulls out his cell phone. Dials the number of the one person he's been doing his damnedest to avoid for as long as possible. Screwing on his best telemarketer smile- _they can hear it in your voice!-_ he waits through the tones, unconsciously straightening as he hears the gruff voice of his boss answer the phone. "It's Brass. I need a warrant."

"_Gimme the rundown_," is all he gets, but he figures it's better than '_Go to Hell'_.

"Got a print off the phone. Comes back to a felon with paper. Known association with the gang we think took our guys, and a confirmed business connection with Alejandro Arrué, the leader of our Bangers Local Union 666."

The last thing Jim expects to hear is the response that gets. "_Alex? Alex Arrué?"_

Jim actually pulls the phone away from his ear for a second. "You, uh, you know this guy?"

"_He was a major contributor to my last campaign," _Burdick says slowly. "_Are you trying to tell me you suspect him of gang activity?"_

Jim casts a quick glance at the now questioning looks of the others in the small lab.

"He is a person of interest in our investigation, yeah," Jim says with a sigh. _In for a penny, in for a pound… "_We have reliable information that he's the leader of an MS-13 gang."

"_And this information is from…?"_

"A reliable source." _That's what makes it reliable information, asshole. "_An informant from a rival Mexican gang, actually. Had Arrué in for an interview earlier and he--"

"_You brought him in for __questioning__? He's an honest business man, concerned about his community, friend to the LVPD, and you take the word of some Mexican banger piece of trash?"_

Jim sticks a finger in his collar and pulls it away from his neck as cold sweat starts to form. _Could this shit roll downhill any faster at me? _The anger, fear and frustration he's been tampering down, compressing down into the pit of his stomach suddenly flares, ignites."We have a print off a phone pulled off the truck that held our CSIs. We have that print matched to a knife-wielding psycho with a record. This same rap sheet carrying thug is listed with Dun & Brad as the Vice President of one of your _honest businessman_'s companies. And we have Arrué's voice off a message from the same phone, giving the psycho orders."

The dead air at the other end of the line has Jim on the verge of asking a completely inappropriate, _'Can you hear me now?'_ When the silence is finally broken, Jim has to pull the phone from his mouth so Burdick doesn't hear his long sigh of relief; he's got him.

"_What do you need the warrant for?"_

_That's what I thought, asshole. _He knocks the back of his hand into Sam's arm and gives the detective a thumbs up. "Warrant for a search of an upholstery shop. We think our guys are there."

"_You'll have it in fifteen minutes."_

"Make it ten," Jim says shortly, then shuts the phone in his hand. "You ready to roll, Sam? Let's go see if we can't bring our boys back home."

* * *

As soon as the door closes, Warrick's rolling away from Nick, talking a blue streak, wriggling and twisting like he's in the throes of a convulsion.

The movement barely registers with Nick. He's only now noticed how really too goddamned CLOSE Alex's body is to him. How the blood pool ends just east of Nick's knee.

"Fuck. Son of a--"

"Warrick, man. We're gonna die."

Warrick stills next to Nick.

"No, we're not. We're not goin' out like this."

Nick looks over at his partner. Warrick's on his side, head pointed at the door. Zip-tied hands snugged under his butt, face a grimace. A harsh bark of laughter pops out of Nick's mouth, completely surprising them both. "What the fuck're you doin', man?"

Warrick's laughter is interrupted by a hiss when his shoulders pull at the physicality of it. Nick can see a tiny line of red where the plastic binds are cutting into his friend's wrists.

"I'ma get us outta here, Nick."

Nick shakes his head, suddenly serious. "Didn't you hear what Alex--" and Nick's voice catches. He stops himself from turning back to look at the dead man. "He said he was at the PD. Talkin' to a captain. That's Brass, man! They're comin' t' get us, Warrick."

"We don't know that. Just 'cause Alex was hauled in doesn't mean they got anything from him. Like you said before, if he's who you think he is--" and now Warrick's words catch. "Who you think he was… Guy's good at keepin' on the down low. They might not make the connect."

_But, I was rescued_… Nick's throat swells and tightens. "Warrick, man. I don't wanna die."

"We're not dyin'," says Warrick, and starts to worm around again on the concrete floor.

Nick watches for a beat, squeezes shut his eyes, painfully tight, opens them. He's figured it out, now. Just doubts his partner's flexible enough to make it happen.

But then Warrick's tied hands pass under his butt, his toes pressing against the floor to push back his pelvis. He lets out a little groan and stills to breathe for a second, wrists straining at the back of his thighs.

"You…you bendy enough to do that, man?" Nick asks with a plastic chuckle. _Yes. Say yes, man. Please._

"Heh. Yeah. Let's hope so. If this works, thank Tina for both of us."

The laugh from Nick is genuine this time.

Warrick draws in a deep breath and rights himself with a grunt, rolling back into a sitting position, chest forced down to his legs. He pauses, blows out the breath he just took in, and brings his knees up around his ears.

Nick's so confused by the contradiction of thoughts flying around his brain he can barely figure out what to do. The still totally-stoned, 14-year-old part of his brain wants to make all manner of inappropriate jokes his adult brain would normally filter. Bleat laughter like a hyena. But the desperate – _oh, God, I really don't wanna die _- don'twannabehere part of his brain is winding up all his hope and energy around his best friend's attempt to get his bound legs through the loop of his arms. _Get free. Get loose. Oh, God, please do it, Warrick. You can do it. Please DO IT._

And then the first thing to go right…goes right.

Warrick's hissing and then whooping quietly, bound hands in front of him instead of behind. He pauses for a second, catches his breath, and then he's pulling up his legs again, rolling onto his knees.

Nick watches like it's all happening in slow motion. _Maybe it is_… Warrick's shuffle-stepping on his knees, zip-ties around his ankles making the going difficult. Nick sees it, though. His head clears enough to realize what his friend's after. The adrenaline buzz is making the high recede a bit.

On the edge of the pallet that holds the bolts of material where Rabbit had sat: a utility knife.

A fire-bright '_YES!_' – like stadium lighting – flashes through Nick, and then dims when he hears muffled Spanish shouted somewhere beyond the storeroom door. His head snaps back to his partner – so far to the left his neck aches with the granting of visual access. "Rick?"

Nick hears Warrick's quick breathing, hears the quiet '_Come on, come on_…' from his partner's mouth, and then hears a soft '_pop_'. The cut-apart zip-tie cuffs flick into Nick's periphery and tic across the concrete. There's blood along the edges of the plastic, wet and red. Fresh. _Warrick's._ And then everything sort of tunnels and spins like a sci-fi movie time vortex, and his partner's kneeling in front of Nick's feet, sawing at the bindings around his ankles.

"…outta the way and get through that door."

_Huh?_ Warrick's talking, but it's not all getting through to Nick's processing center. "What?"

There's another soft plastic snap, and Nick's legs are free.

"We gotta move those boxes to get to the door," says Warrick, crabbing around Nick's right side and sidling up next to his shoulder. "Things are heatin' up out in the warehouse, sounds like."

Nick feels Warrick's hand fall to rest on the left side of his face, his gaze on the bloody ties redirected to his partner with gentle but firm guidance. Nick forces himself to focus on Warrick's face.

"You with me, bro?"

Nick bobs his head. "Yeah. Boxes. Door."

Warrick's hand slips to Nick's chest, pats reassuringly. "Need you to scoot up for me, a'ight? So I can get your hands free."

"Yeah," says Nick, and nods again. "'Kay."

He wills his knees to bend, his legs to pull up. His strained stiff muscles scream in protest. Using his boot heels against the concrete for leverage, he inches himself forward and away from the wall.

Warrick scuttles behind him, and Nick feels his friend's fingers force their way between his wrist and the zip-tie surrounding it. There's pressure, and then the light yanking back-and-forth of the utility knife at work. Nick winces as the sharp edge of the plastic digs into his flesh. He sympathizes for Warrick, because he knows this pain is less than what his partner's own damaged wrists must have suffered.

Suddenly, it's all pins and needles and – _Ants. Like ants!_ – up and down Nick's arms, as the makeshift cuffs are cut, and his hands are finally loosed. "Oh, God…"

Warrick's hands are on his shoulders, now; supporting, steadying.

"Nick. We have to move fast. How you feel about gettin' upright?"

Nick glances down at his arms, just to confirm – _No ants. Nothin' there_ – and then at his partner. He nods, tries to return Warrick's intense stare. "Yeah. Help me up. Gotta… Get me up, man."

Warrick stands, offers Nick a hand.

A few dozen flares go off behind Nick's eyes on the upswing, and then his back's soft up against the wall, Warrick's hands pressing against his chest.

"Nicky?"

"'M okay. 'M up. I'm up, right?"

Warrick smiles, nods his head. "Yeah, man. You're up. You're good."

Warrick's hands fist in the front of his shirt, and there's a little shudder in Nick's brain that turns his partner into Jeff for a fraction of a second. Nick looks away quickly, catches sight of Alex's body on the floor. He sucks in a breath as Warrick pulls him over to the corner of the storeroom where their only escape lies.

When Nick's back in real time again, Warrick's handing him a box. They're clearing the path to the door – _to freedom_ – like a bucket brigade. Nick tosses aside the box in his hands and turns to take another from Warrick.

* * *

"Okay, listen to me," says Jeff, hand tight on the back of Rabbit's neck, pulling him close. "You send Little Juan and 'Nardo out the side way, tell them to go up front, check and see if Eduardo has boys in car. He does? They need to take care of them. _¿Entiende?"_

"Yeah. I got you."

"The you tell Freddy and Joker to make sure everything's locked down, make sure they got extra clips."

Rabbit's eyes grow wide and he turns his head under Jeff's heavy hand. "Man, what the--"

"Just do it, Cojete! You hear me?"

Everything in Jeff's voice tells him to agree, so he does.

"You go out there and you tell Eduardo I ain't here--"

"Why--?"

Jeff's grip tightens at the back of Rabbit's neck, cutting off further protest. "Because I'm _el jefe_. And I say so. That good enough for you?"

The knife, silver and crimson –stained with Alex's blood – flashes in Jeff's hand, and Rabbit finds the strength to nod again.

"I don't care what you tell Eduardo. Just get him the fuck out of here. Because if I'm going down for killing Graciela? I'm taking you with me, _hermano_."

"What about those cops. They know about… And Alex…"

"I'll take care of those cops."

"What are you--"

"Don't worry about it. Just do like I told you, you shit." Jeff pushes Rabbit forward, toward the hall that leads back into the shop.

The jittery banger rubs at his neck, shoots Jeff a furtive glare, and then walks down the hall.

As soon as he's out of sight, Jeff hightails it to Alex's office. He knows the leader keeps at least a thousand dollars cash in the bottom lock-drawer of his desk. What he doesn't know, and won't ever know now, is that Jeff can pick the lock in about ten seconds. Can make the money disappear even faster.

Because fuck if he's going to stay in Vegas. He's got cousins in L.A., knows crew from at least three other 13 cliques. He could stay and take Alex's spot, but he'd end up having to kill a whole bunch of people to do it. And not that he minds it, it just takes a lot of time. Time he hasn't got.

He grabs the biggest wad of hundreds he can, once he's in the drawer, and helps himself to the glock under some paperwork. He shoves the bills in his pocket, and the gun in his waistband. He picks up his knife from Alex's desk, and heads back to the storeroom to tie up lose ends.

* * *

Warrick's thankful for one goddamned thing. _At least they're passin' fire inspection._ Because hanging on the wall next to the door that leads OUT, is a bright and shiny fire extinguisher.

He spares a second to glance at Nick. His partner's not looking so hot; pale in the spaces he's not bruised and bloodied, one arm slung around his middle where Warrick had witnessed the landing of at least three brutal punches. Nick's leaning against the pile of relocated boxes, eyes closed and head back. _Man, that nose is definitely busted, Stokes. Shit. _Warrick wrestles the extinguisher from the wall mount. "Nick."

Nick makes a noise in his throat, but nothing articulate. His eyes stay shut.

"Nick, man. Hey. Look alive." Warrick winces at the unintentional irony in his command, but his partner snaps to.

"Yeah. 'S it opened?"

"Not yet, man. Listen. The door's locked--"

"'Course it is," Nick says, and laughs sadly. "Storya my fuckin' life."

"I'ma pound the knob off with this extinguisher, but it's gonna make some noise. Nick! You listenin' to me?"

Nick's eyes are closed again and he's swaying slightly.

_Let's be safe and tack concussion onto the injury list, too. Son of a bitch._ "Nick!"

"Yeah," Nick answers at last, turning his good right eye full on Warrick.

"I dunno what's goin' on out there," Warrick says, head tilting toward the warehouse door, "But somebody's probably gonna hear me bangin'. We need to be ready to move."

"Yeah. Let's get the fuck outta here, bro."

Nick straightens enough for Warrick to feel okay about doing what he's planning on doing; hopes some adrenaline kicks in soon for his partner. And he hopes whatever is going on in the warehouse is enough to keep Jeff occupied.

Warrick wraps one hand around the neck of the extinguisher's nozzle mechanism, one hand around the body, near the bottom. The whole thing weighs maybe seven, eight pounds, and Warrick's thankful for the long reach of his piano-playing fingers. Just doesn't want to accidentally smash them. He figures three, maybe four good powerful blows should pop off the doorknob. It's not an industrial fixture, thank God. He hefts the extinguisher and stifles a quick chuckle; it looks like he's about to go to war with a chub of bologna for a weapon.

He hears Nick faintly say his name on the first downswing. The knob takes the thunk and veers to the left a little. Warrick steps in closer to the door to make his next swing fall from directly overtop. He's raising the extinguisher for a second go when Nick calls out again – this time a little louder. With more urgency. "Yeah, man?"

"Warrick?"

He pounds down once more, and the knob bends and bows like a supplicant, but stays put. "Son of a--"

"Warrick!"

He turns because Nick sounds freaked. And Warrick instantly understands why.

* * *

Eduardo is right where Rabbit had left him. Standing just inside the workshop proper; legs apart, tattooed hands crossed in front of him, two of his crew flanking him on each side. He's the picture of casual ease; a man used to having his orders answered without question. And Rabbit's returning without Jeff.

"My man ain't here," Rabbit says as he strides in, Jeff's instructions clear in his head. As clear as anything can be in a brain with that much THC clogging up the works.

"I don't believe you," Eduardo replies calmly.

"You don't gotta believe, man, you just gotta know. Jeff's. Not. Here."

Eduardo's entwined fingers fall apart and he plants his hands on his hips, arms akimbo. "Then where is he?" he bites back

Rabbit shrugs, but it comes off as more of a twitch; shoulder rising and falling, stuttering in that short path. His eyes try to meet Eduardo's, to give him a steadfast, _I'm bein' sincere, man _stare, but they dodge and weave before finally coming to a wavery rest somewhere over the gang leader's shoulder.

Eduardo snorts in disgust. "Fuckin' stoner." He juts a chin at Rabbit while talking to his posse. "That's why I tell you not to fuck with that shit. Fuckin' stoned-ass motherfucker."

He turns back to Rabbit, takes in his jittery stance, hopping on his the balls of his feet. "That all you on there, stoner? You got any brain cells left? If you did, you'd be telling me where Jeff is. Now."

"Tol' ya. Jeff ain't here," Rabbit says glancing behind him as Freddy and Joker enter the room with the bang of a door closing in their wake.

Eduardo and his men stiffen and stand straighter at the appearance of the two new players. The leader takes a step forward. "Then I'll talk to Alex."

_Alex? Fuck, man! You gotta try long distance for that poor motherfucker. _The thought strikes Rabbit as one of the most clever things he's ever come up with, and while the filter between his brain and his mouth is currently struggling to stay in place - what with all the weed - he manages not to tell Eduardo his joke. He DOESN'T manage to not start giggling like an evil clown on helium, like Frank Booth on nitrous, like a man high as a fucking star in the sky.

"Alex isn't here," Rabbit manages to choke out as his laughing has his already jittery body jerking and jumping like the floor is electrified.

Eduardo's face darkens. "There's no way Alex would leave, not with this much shit going down. And he wouldn't leave you fuckups in charge."

Rabbit stifles his giggling and goes cold. Freddy and Joker step up next to him, hands hovering over the pieces each carry stuck in their pants waists.

"Who the fuck you callin' fuckups, _cabron_?"

"You. I'm callin' you a --"

Eduardo's last words are cut off by the 9 mil bullet that enters his left eye. Rabbit looks at the end of his gun, smoke still curling from the end, and giggles.

* * *

Warrick shouldn't have worried about the noise catching anybody's attention. That issue's cleared up when the door between the warehouse and the storeroom slams open and the shouts in Spanish are magnified by ten and a volley of gunshots ring out. What he SHOULD have worried about was listening for somebody jiggling the handle of the OTHER door. Somebody like JeffBut_ – shoulda, coulda woulda. Son of a bitch._

Warrick can see it play out in a flash across Jeff's face; he's processing like a motherfucker, taking in the scene. A stoned-ass CRAZY motherfucker who still has a knife in his hand. Warrick turns with the extinguisher and takes one final heave. His fingers vibrate from the impact but – yes, yes, yes! – the knob drops to the concrete like a stone. Warrick's shouldering open the door, turning to grab his partner and go, go, GO when Jeff launches himself across the room.

Warrick's brain – that most powerful, amazing, CONFUSING fucking organ in the body – takes that moment to posit the question of whether or not he got some kind of contact buzz from the blunt smoke earlier. Because he's feeling all kinds of NOT RIGHT. Everything speeds up. The color in the storeroom brightens. The noise from the warehouse increases. Even Jeff's knife is bigger and sharper and – no, no, no – moving so fast toward Nick. Jeff's moving so fast toward Nick.

Before his best friend's name can crawl from his throat, before his body can react, Warrick sees the knife--

"Nooo!"

slide into Nick's chest

"Nooo!"

and then Jeff's on top of Nick, driving in the blade.

The pile of boxes behind them collapses at the same time as the barrier between Warrick's brain and body. Without thinking – without CONSCIOUSNESS – he lunges forward and brings the extinguisher down on Jeff's head. The result is instantaneous; Jeff stiffens for a fraction of a second, and then goes limp. Conscious thought comes back to Warrick when he hears Nick's moan, and then he's lowering the extinguisher, dropping it with a hollow clunk, and shoving Jeff's body off his partner.

"Nick?" _Oh, Shit. Oh, no, no, no, no, no._

The knife's hilt – and a few spare inches of blade – juts from Nick's chest like the Sword in the Stone, and Warrick fights the compulsion to pull it out. And then he's pushing Nick's hands back, away; stopping him from doing the same.

"Oh, Christ. Oh, Rick, man…" Nick grits his teeth, bruised and bloody lips curling up. His back arches and he presses himself against the collapsed boxes. "Fuck! It hurts!"

Warrick gets his partner's hands pinned down. Nick's bleeding, Nick's moaning, Warrick's trying to comprehend and estimate and figure out a thousand things at once.

The gunfire on the other side of the door. _Maybe six, eight shooters? Semi-autos._

And Jeff. _What if I killed him?_ There's a growing puddle of red under his head – _how hard did I hit him?_

But mostly it's Nick. Nick motherfuckin' what'd-you-ever-do-to-deserve-this, Nick. The knife in his side is surreal, and so is the black stain growing on the navy henley surrounding it. _Fuck._

Warrick knows how long that knife is. Saw enough of it the last hour. So he knows there's maybe four inches of steel inside his best friend's chest. Four inches of highly polished, sharp as glass, serrated, goddamned HOOK AT THE TIP steel. "Oh, shit, Nicky…"

"I can feel it man. I can… I can feel it inside me, Rick."

_Don't forget he's high, too_. Because all of this isn't fucked up enough.

"You gotta… I gotta take it out, man…"

Warrick's eyes dart across the storeroom, wild and worried. Because they need to get OUT. Right now. And there's a fucking KNIFE sticking out of Nick's chest. He spots what he thinks he can use in the corner where Rabbit had sat and watched Jeff torture them both. He turns back to Nick, yanks down on his wrists until Nick gives him his attention.

"Nick, listen to me. Listen. We gotta get get outta here, man. You hear those bullets poppin' out there? Huh?"

"Yeah…" Nick says, halfway between a word and a whine.

"I gotta pack somethin' around the knife and then wrap it up. Stabilize it so we can get outta here--"

"But--"

"We can't take it out. You know that, Nicky. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, man. If we take it out, you're gonna bleed out. We gotta leave it in. You know that, right?"

Nick pinches his eyes shut, face a grimace.

Warrick yanks down on his wrists again, knows he's causing more pain. "Hey! You know that, right?"

Nick manages a short nod, and it's good enough for Warrick. "I'ma let go of your hands and grab some stuff for bandages, okay? You gotta leave the knife in, Nick. You stay cool, and you don't take it out. You hear me? Nick!"

Nick manages another small nod.

"You stay cool, and you don't take it out, a'ight?"

"'Kay."

Then Warrick's up on his feet, to the bolt of polyester upholstery and the roll of cotton batting. And as he grabs it all and works it with the utility knife, he's struck by a powerful delayed déjà vu. He's there in the storeroom, but he's back in that hole. Back a year and a half ago when they'd torn the lid off that goddamned box and then told Nick to stay there. Told him to be still. A powerful ache swells up in Warrick's chest, and his hands move faster. "I'ma get us outta here, Nick."

When Warrick's back at his friend's side, he sees he's stayed true to his word; hasn't touched the knife. But the boxes directly under Nick's hands have suffered damage; torn and ripped by scrabbling fingers. There's crushed brown cardboard held tightly in each of his fists.

Warrick apologizes for every one of Nick's gasps and moans and each held breath, for all the pain he causes as he packs batting around the knife and winds the strips of upholstery he's cut around Nick's middle.

"I'ma get you up now, Nick. It's gonna hurt, but it's gonna be better if you can help me. Can you help me?"

Nick's hand finds Warrick's shoulder and fists the material of his shirt there. Once Warrick gets his arm behind Nick and has a grip on his wrist, Nick gives a sharp nod, like a bull rider signaling for the gate to be opened. Warrick swings them both up as quickly as he can, grits his own teeth as Nick yells out in pain.

And then they're running out the side door – even if it's more like Warrick carrying Nick on his hip, Nick's boots making occasional contact with the orange dirt – they're running. Running straight for the desert. Because there's nowhere else to run.

* * *

There is a heartbeat of stunned vacuum, then Eduardo's men pull their pieces. Dive to either side, and start firing.

Rabbit's stoned, but not too wasted to realize the shit has hit the fan, and he's standing directly in its path. He takes a flying leap of desperation and lands behind a chair set up at a sewing station. With one adrenaline fueled push, he shoves the industrial sewing machine onto the floor, the massive hunk of steel knocking loose a chunk of concrete from the grey painted floor. He knocks the table onto its side and crouches behind it, gun hand firing blindly across the warehouse, toward Eduardo's men.

Freddy and Joker take up position behind enormous bolts of upholstery fabric and trade gunfire with the rival crewmen who have fallen back behind racks of half-finished car seats and the skeleton frames of living room furniture. As lead hits home, thunking into the thickly padded seats and the upholstery bolts, it sends up a flurry of stuffing and burnt fabric bits that settle like snowflakes on the body of Eduardo Flores .

"Fuck! Where the hell is Jeff?" Rabbit hisses at Freddy.

His only answer is Freddy's shrug, and the slideclick of a new magazine slamming home in his automatic. Joker keeps shooting nearby.

"Jeff! Jeff, you son of a bitch! _El jefe_, my ass, motherfucker!" Rabbit yells at the still-shut storeroom door. There's no fucking way Jeff's not hearing the storeroom's turned into a war zone.

A bullet whizzes by, two inches from Rabbit's head, and sprays his face with soft white polyfill. He swipes a hand down his face, clearing the fluff from his eyes, and cackles. "You missed me! You missed me, you blind mother--"

The next bullet takes off most of his lower jaw, and Rabbit falls to the floor, choking on his own blood.


	12. Rejas

* * *

**Disclaimer:** While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving. 

**SPOILERS/Timeline:** Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'

**UNDYING GRATITUDE:** To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.

* * *

He's trying to concentrate. He really is - _leftfootrightfoot_ - but his stupid brain keeps bugging him: _'Hey! When have you ever felt pain this bad before? Try to remember.'_

So he's TRYING to help Warrick – _leftfootrightfootleftfootrightfoot_ – because he knows they need to run and everything, but GODDAMN, it hurts. It hurts, hurts, HURTS.

He can feel the knife inside him, can feel the SHAPE of it with his flesh. His blood knows its edges. There's even a difference in temperature between the hardcoldness of the blade and the warmth inside his chest.

He knows it's getting harder to breathe – _rightleftright_ – and he hopes that's from the running because – _GOD! We gotta keep running, Rick. Far away. Straight to a hospital, okay? 'Cause they gotta get this knife outta me, man._

They stop.

_What? No, no, no…_

And then Warrick's saying something. Saying things like '_down_' and '_come on_' and '_drain_' and '_we have to_' and '_gonna hurt_', and Nick doesn't like the sound of ANY of it, even if only half of it's getting through.

"Come on, Nicky. You can-- We gotta do this, bro."

Warrick leans him up against a chain link fence – _There's a fence. Of course there's a fence. Why is there always a fence? _– and a moan spills from his lips. He tries to keep his knees locked, twines his fingers through the gridded steel and hangs on for dear life.

Warrick's pulling and groaning at a hole in the chain link along the ground, and Nick wants to LAUGH because a little window opens up in his brain, allowing in a breeze of clarity. _You want me to shimmy under a freakin' fence? With a knife stickin' outta me? You gotta be outta your mind._

Nick sucks in a few short breaths, hisses them out, and tries to expand his narrow focus. He can hear gunfire. Knows that's why they're headed in this direction instead of the other. He presses the right side of his face against the fence, strains with his good eye to see what he can see.

_Just desert._

Just desert, and Warrick kicking down on the dirt with his boot heel, attacking the spot under where he's bent up the chain link.

There's a drop off in the landscaping; a foot or so beyond the fence, the ground angles sharply from the elevation of the warehouse lot to the desert floor about ten feet below.

Nick feels dizzy, sick to his stomach, as he listens to the gunshots and Warrick's exertion, and the dry, brittle echo of loosened soil hitting hardpack. His stomach starts to revolt – _I'm not in that box_ – and then his partner's hands are on his shoulders, pulling him away from the fence.

* * *

The Mapquest directions turn out not to be needed, as the familiar green highway signs on the interstate helpfully guide travelers in the direction of Nellis AFB. Sam points a finger through the dusty windshield at the exit coming up, and Jim eases the Taurus onto the off ramp, braking as the end comes up way the hell closer than he expects. He'd been holding at an even 100mph on the interstate and is barely down to 70 as he hits the exit. 

He California rolls through the stop sign at the bottom of the ramp, hooking the unmarked into a sharp left and mashing down on the accelerator again. He reaches over and pulls down the gumball that had gotten them through traffic on the highway, but would now possibly give a heads up to their approach.

The street is heavily potholed, suffering under the bulk of thousands of trips by heavy trucks, and Jim swerves expertly around every divot. Sam flashes him a tight smile as they almost risk losing the right rear tire in a hole roughly the size of a widescreen TV.

Jim just grunts at the concern. "You should see Jersey streets after a tough winter."

The radio on the dash squawks to life as they pull into the connecting road that links the industrial buildings. The dispatchers voice reads out the address they are heading for, and the code is '_shots fired'_. Sam hits the express down on the window, and the cool air sucked into the car brings with it the distinctive _POP POP POP_ of gunfire not too far away.

"Fuck," Jim bites out as he sallies around another pothole.

Sam picks up the mouthpiece. "Dispatch, this is Victor Echo Golf 3-1-1. Car Thirteen is at that location. Requesting backup. Caution silent approach," Sam says into the radio mouthpiece, then shrugs at Jim. "Wouldn't want anybody feelin' like they need to make desperate decisions."

"_Roger that, Victor Echo Golf. Unit 68 is in your vicinity- will redirect_."

"Where have I heard that before?" Jim mutters as he stomps on the gas. The two men are thrown back in their seats as all two hundred plus horses under the hood rev to life.

The road is smoother here, but he's going so fast he fails to negotiate a vast shallow gravel lake that covers both lanes. The front of the Taurus dips into the hole and the front undercarriage makes a horrendous growlscrape as the V8 pushes the vehicle up and out.

He pulls into the parking area in front of the Vegas Tapiceria and slams the brake down, coming to a smeary stop as the car's rear slews over the gravel covered blacktop.

The gunfire is louder now; Sam and Jim thumb the snaps open on their holsters.

Sam takes a second to lift the radio once more. "Dispatch, this is Victor Echo Golf, requesting SWAT presence and medical personnel ASAP at our location. Multiple shots fired. Repeat, multiple shots fired."

"_Roger that, Victor Echo Golf_," comes the placid voice of the dispatcher. But a heartbeat later the call goes out for an ambulance and tactical team to respond. Sam throws the mouthpiece down and looks at Jim. "You ready for this?"

"No." Jim shakes his head and sighs. "Getting' real tired of this shit. C'mon."

* * *

_Chingado. Motherfucker._

His eyes blink rapidly, open full, and then Jeff rolls onto his side and vomits. It takes him a second to catch his breath, to grab onto his surroundings, to rid his vision of the hazy gauze, and bring Alex's dead face into sharp focus.

He scrambles back from the gang leader's body, from his own puddle of puke, cursing and moaning and trying to find balance on the wildly tilting floor. There are still gunshots pinging and popping off in the warehouse, and he reaches for his own gun; metal hard against his belly.

The two cops are gone, even though Jeff knows he got the white one. His hand and arm still hold on to the sense-memory of the knife piercing the man's chest. And then nothing. Then black.

He rolls up onto his knees, steadies himself against the tumble of cardboard boxes nearby, and forces himself up. Everything flares and fuzzes for a second – flickers like a flame – and pain lashes like lightning behind his eyes. Claps thunder across the back of his skull. _Motherfucking cops!_

The side door is opened. Jeff knows it's the only way they could have escaped. And he's not letting that happen. _Oh, FUCK NO._ He pushes himself up and weaves his way drunkenly across the storeroom. His tennis shoes smear and slip in the red blood that slicks the concrete floor.

By the time he's to the door, his vision has settled for the most part. He's got his gun in his hand and a mission on his mind:

* * *

There's too much gunfire, and it's too unpredictable, for Warrick to take them around the front of the shop. So, he heads toward the desert. If nothing else – if he can't risk going straight for the closest civilization – at least he knows Nellis is within cross-country distance. It's been a long time since he ran track, but all his brain is screaming - between _Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!_ - is _Run! Run! Run!_ And if he has to, he knows he can do it. 

He hadn't remembered the fence - _Of course there's a fence, there's always a fence_ – from when they'd arrived in the produce truck. He'd been looking past it, farther out, away. So it takes him a second they probably don't have to recalibrate the plan in his head.

Frantic as he is, Warrick hasn't missed the distress in Nick's breathing, and resting against the fence hasn't helped his partner even out his shallow intakes of air. Warrick may not be a doctor, but he's learned enough through the years to be running the possibilities in his head: _low BP, blood loss, maybe early stages of hypovolemic shock. Maybe pneumothorax. _There's no way – _please let there be a way _– the knife hasn't hit something inside his partner's chest. And with the weed and the running and the other injuries on top of it – Warrick's desperate to get things under some kind of control.

About twenty-five yards to the left of where his heel is digging under the chain link like a hound dog, a foot and a half of steel culvert juts out of the side of the elevated lot; industrial-sized, corrugated spiral steel, a good eight feet in diameter. Warrick can't tell from this angle, but he's hoping there's no grate cover. Knows there probably is, because who needs a fucking coyote or something nesting in their rain run-off system? But if he can get Nick somewhere - under some cover, still and away and SAFE for a minute - then Warrick can go for help.

As soon as he's got a good two feet of clearance between the kicked away furrow and the turned-up chain link, he – gently as possible – gets Nick down on his back. Tries to ignore his friend's wallow of pain. He gets Nick's feet pointed at their escape route.

Warrick will get himself halfway through on his belly, feet first, and then slide Nick through as smoothly as he can. It's not ideal, but nothing's been ideal about any of this; it's the best he can do.

"Okay, boss," he says, laying Nick's hands in place around the hilt of the knife. "You keep your hands on that packing, a'ight? Keep it as still as possible."

Nick gives a quick nod and Warrick squeezes his shoulder.

"I'ma do my best not to make this worse."

Warrick's got his legs swung through the hole, feet trying to find purchase, when he feels a hot sting across his left deltoid, and hears the delayed echo of gun report.

Jeff's halfway between the warehouse and the fence, swaying on his feet, covered in blood, Glock at the end of an outstretched arm aimed right at them. He yells something in Spanish and rushes forward.

There's a tiny moment of satisfaction as Jeff stumbles and goes down, but then Warrick's left elbow buckles and his feet lose their toehold. As he slips forward, he grabs Nick by the boot and pulls.

His feet hit solid ground and his knees flop forward, and then Nick's coming down on top of his thighs, screaming like a banshee. Warrick has just enough time to straighten up and latch onto Nick's shoulders. He swivels him forward – all Superman adrenaline – and gets Nick's arm slung over his shoulder. They're off for the culvert as a bullet pings off the chain link about their heads, and Jeff slurs curses over both their names in Spanish. Warrick doesn't need an interpreter to figure it out.

* * *

The frequency of the pops lessens, leaving Jim to assume that the shooters are either dropping like flies dosed with Raid or running out of ammo. Or maybe running out on the fight like he'd witnessed that morning. 

There's a single vehicle parked up close to the shop front, engine running. It's a gorgeous late model Lexus, black, with darkly tinted windows and expensive, but not ostentatious, rims and trim.

A window at the front of the shop splinters apart and both men duck instinctively. Shouts in Spanish mix with rapid gunfire as the two detectives creep up behind the Lexus.

Sam chances a stand from his crouch, Glock held at the ready, and looks in the front windshield, the only part of the sedan not too dark to see through. Sam gives a clear head shake and Jim sidles over, Sig in hand to take refuge in the bulky cover of luxury steel.

Jim's hand squeezes once, twice on the grip of his automatic. His heart is already in his throat and he's breathing like they've run a mile, not scrambled the thirty feet from their cruiser. _FUCK! Not again. C'mon, Jimmy. Pull it together… _

At a look he nods, and Sam begins mouthing a countdown. He's on the 'th' of three, tongue trapped between his front teeth as the sounds of fast approaching rescue greets their ears; a tactical unit and at least one bus, whipping through the gravel and pothole gauntlet.

"Thank God YOU called it in," Jim coughs out in a laugh. He wipes his sweaty hand on his slacks and leans against the Lexus, content to let the door busters do their thing.

The SWAT truck pulls up, a dozen Spartans spilling out, clad in Kevlar from head to crotch. A taller, bulkier form separates a few feet, then starts throwing his hand signals at the helmet and visor covered men. No words are exchanged as they form a phalanx around a heavily muscled SWAT carrying a battering ram.

Two men pull pins on canisters that immediately start spewing choking black smoke and they're tossed in through the front windows.

The gunfire lessens dramatically, then the battering ram hits home, throwing the front door in, over, toppling it, breaking it clear out of its frame. The SWAT team storms over the fallen door and within a minute Jim hears, _"ALL CLEAR!"_ from inside.

"Coulda used you guys this morning," Jim mutters as he and Sam rise to enter the building.

* * *

The mouth of the culvert is dry, but a few feet in and they're sloshing through an inch or two of fetid water and muck. Warrick's plan had been to drop Nick just inside the drainage tube and head for help. He hadn't counted on Jeff coming after them. Hell, he hadn't honestly counted on Jeff still being alive. 

"Shoulda…hit 'im…harder," gasps Nick, his head almost laying on Warrick's shoulder, breath hot in his ear.

"Yeah. I shoulda. How you doin'? Can we keep goin'? This'll lead out somewhere, Nicky. We're gonna get outta this."

They keep sacheting forward, Warrick the momentum for them both. After ten feet, there's no more dusky light from the open end of the culvert. Another twenty feet, and light and outside sound disappear altogether. Warrick's eyes start to adjust to the black, and he keeps moving, hoping at some point there's a swing off; that the drain system leads under another warehouse in what he's thinking is an industrial complex. He's hoping for something to come up and offer a route to safety and help.

Warrick's praying for a whole SLEW of miracles as he readjusts Nick's arm over his shoulder, hitches Nick higher up and more securely against his hip. His own arm is blazing, and he thinks the bullet just grazed him, but he's not sure. Doesn't have time to check. He's more concerned with the shallow wheezy breaths his partner's taking, more focused on listening for the splash and thudding echo of footsteps that will tell if Jeff's in pursuit.

A little moangasp joins the rhythm line of Nick's respiration, and Warrick just ACHES. He knows as bad as this is for him, as bad as this IS - it's so much worse for his friend. And – _Jesus. Oh, fuck… Oh, Nick, I'm sorry… -_ because he's just realized he's pulled them out of one terrible situation and solved it by heading underground; probably the last place Nick Stokes wants to be when he's feeling scared and vulnerable.

He's kicking himself so hard over that, he almost misses the coolness of the cross breeze. He brings them to a stop. Holds them both still. And then he backs them up a step.

He feels it on his sweat-drenched skin, can even smell it. There's air passing through the tunnel they're in, so he knows there's a turn to take…a turn that has access to the outside. Which way to go is the question.

"Rick?"

Nick's voice is weak and dry-sounding. Makes Warrick tighten his grip on him. "Gonna change direction, boss. Get us to another lead-out tunnel."

He shifts them both facing left of forward, reaches out until his fingers connect with the cold, spiral steel. His hand brailles across the culvert wall until he finds the edge of the jointed turn. "This way, man," he says, and starts them in a new direction.

About 100 yards farther, there's another intersection of tubing, and Warrick turns them right this time because it seems…right. Another 150 yards, and the betting man wins the kitty; he can make out a circle of sweet, dusky orange, late November sky.

"Nick, man. Nick! We're getting' outta here."

* * *

Someone has turned on a few of the industrial sized fans the shop uses to keep its employees from keeling over in the Vegas heat, and the smoke from the grenades has mostly cleared. 

Center ring is the body of the man Jim had seen talking to Arrué in the club. The '_salesman_'. There's a bullet hole where his left eye used to be.

Officers wrestle with tattooed bangers in three corners of the room and a fourth officer is shaking his head over a fallen body. The blood around this one is still adding to the pool under his shoulders, but the SWAT picks up a ragged sheet of naugahyde upholstery fabric and drops it over the ruined face with a shudder.

Jim briefly considers what could make a seasoned SWAT guy wobble, but then decides he isn't really all that interested in knowing. Instead, he does a quick 360 of the room; everything is being locked down, everyone is being locked up. He nudges Sam and points at the three doors off the back of the warehouse.

"It's like Let's Make a Frickin' Deal," Jim mutters. "Which door we try first?"

Sam shrugs and splits off to take the leftmost, and Jim heads for the middle door.

A small office, metal desk with matching metal file cabinets. A PC more ancient than Jim's LVPD antique. An ashtray overflowing with a mixture of cigarette filters and roaches sits next to the mouse pad. The sharp, spicy smell of freshly burned marijuana fills the room.

Another door opens at the back but it's only a closet, cold weather coats and steel-toed boots. Jim slams the door shut against the nasty, mildewy odor that assaults his nose. _Damn it! _

The room is a bust, and Jim picks up speed, re-entering the warehouse, almost barreling into Sam as he exits his own door choice with a solemn shake of his head.

"It's a breakroom. Day old donuts and stale coffee. Little kitchenette – stove with two burners. Reeks a' grease and grass."

"How the fuck they get any work done, the amount of weed they're knockin' back?" Jim growls.

* * *

_Fence, brick wall, fucking expanse of the Grand Canyon?_ Yup. There it is. As Warrick moves them closer, he can make out the horizontal and vertical lines of a metal grate across the mouth of the culvert. _Son of a bitch_. 

He gets them five feet from the lip, scanning and praying and really just goddamned WISHING like a kid that there's a loose screw or a rusted nut. That the grate is going to fall away as soon as he touches it because this is so FUCKING UNFAIR.

He lowers Nick as gently as he can, but his diligence doesn't spare Nick any pain; he whimpers – _shit_ – the whole way down and sucks back a sob as Warrick eases him back against the side of the metal tunnel.

"There's a grate, Nick. I'm--"

Nick coughs out a chuckle. "Hey, Rick. When we get to the hospital, you tell 'em t' check me for a head injury. 'Cause I swear we already had this conversation."

There's a tiny bit of solace in the fact Nick's lucid enough to joke. Warrick checks the makeshift bandage around his partner's chest and isn't surprised to find it soaked through. "Lemme check out the grate, man. I'm right here, okay?"

"S-sure, man," Nick shivers out.

Warrick's over to the opening in a flash, not thinking, just going straight with hope and faith; pushes against the gridded metal with both palms flat and his back behind it. His only pay-off is a scream of pain from his shoulder, and he's guessing he's been a little more than grazed.

He presses his face against the metal, trying to figure out how it's secured so he can figure out how to get it off. There are industrial strength L-brackets on the top and bottom of the culvert's lip, a flange and a nut and a big-ass screw connected to each. He knows the culvert has to be accessible to maintenance crews, and the flange is probably there to help with the swing; if he can get the bottom screw off, he should be able to slide the grating to one side with the top L-bracket as axis.

He kicks out with a booted foot, heel harsh against the metal. Little clouds of rust float up from, and down from, both connections, but nothing more. Warrick drops to his knees and shoves his arm through the grid. He practically peels off the skin on his fingers trying to get the screw lose. It doesn't budge. _Fuck. FUCK._

He strains to listen over the raspy sound of Nick's inhales and exhales, doesn't think he hears any gunshots. But he doesn't know exactly where they are, and he doesn't know exactly what a cease-fire means. _Maybe they all killed each other_. Or maybe they've stopped to look for him and Nick. He can't risk calling out for help. _So, what? You gonna sit here and wait for your best friend to die?_

There's nothing to help, just garbage and twigs and a shoe over by the far end of the culvert's mouth. "Fuck." He's got no vest, empty pockets, doesn't even have his belt buckle to try.

"Lost your Superman strength, huh?" Nick says behind him.

He crawls back to his partner, legs soaked by the brackish water pooled along the bottom of the tunnel. "Two screws. Top and bottom. Think I could swing it to one side if I could get a screw out." He exhales with an angry huff.

Nick clears his throat, and it sounds like it costs him quite a bit for such a small task. "Knife."

And Warrick knows he heard him wrong. When he doesn't say anything, Nick says it again.

"Y' could try the knife."

_Oh, Jesus, no, Nick…_ "No way."

"Could use it like a--"

"Shut the fuck up, man." He doesn't mean for it to sound so harsh, but Nick needs to get that idea right the hell out of his head. It's the weed talking, or the desperation, or the fucking weed and desperation and blood and tired and – _no, no, NO._ That knife is staying right where it is. They'll wait. "We wait."

But they don't wait long.

Not ten seconds later, they both hear a sharp whistle echo through the corrugated steel, followed by an angry shout: "_¡CERDOS!_ Fucking pigs!"

"I'd rather bleed out than die with him, Warrick. Jesus Christ, please. I can't-- I-- Please."

Warrick's entire face pinches, every muscle clenches. _What the hell am I supposed to do?_

"Please, man…" Nick begs, and that's too much for Warrick to take.

He bends down, leans his ear as close to nick's chest as he dares. It's slight, but it's there, keeping an opposite staccato with every breath; air whistling through the torn flesh around the knife.

He straightens up, runs his forearm over his brow. He shakes his head and coughs out a laugh that's obviously effected, but he figures Nick's not picking up on nuances like that at this point. "Only you, you son of a bitch," he mutters under his breath.

"Whassat?"

As he speaks, he eases Nick forward and begins meticulously unwinding the upholstery strip wrapping around his middle. "My Great Uncle, Thurmond – my Gram's brother – was a medic in Korea. Used to tell us all these gruesome stories about field triage."

He piles the bloody strips of material on Nick's lap, maneuvers him until his back rests against the curve of the culvert again, and starts removing the damp reddened batting around the knife.

"Amazing what you remember from when you were a kid, huh? He used to run me and my cousins through these first-aid battlefield mock-ups…"

He's squinting through the last bit of light – _come on…gimme somethin'_ – and then catches the flash of cellophane pressed up against the bottom part of the grate. He reaches back for it, lance of fire through his shoulder, and carefully peels it away. Makes sure not to tear it.

"He was a frustrated doctor wanna be, you know? Never had the dough for med school, felt too old for it once he got home from the war."

Warrick's telling no lies; the memories – and the knowledge – come flooding back. He checks for a radial pulse and can't get one, moves his fingers to Nick's carotid, and the beat there is irregular and thready. _Shock. Circulation slowing down._ And Nick's jugular is distended on one side, which probably means the knife's clipped a lung. _Jesus fucking Christ._ "Only you would have a fuckin' sucking chest wound."

Nick hitches, makes a little whine in his throat, but Warrick can see him trying to find a smile.

"Fuckin' suckin' Stokes luck," Nick says, and it sounds so contented and ACCEPTING Warrick wants to cry.

He sniffs deep, drops his eyes to the plastic in his hands. "Here's what we're gonna do, a'ight? I'm gonna take the knife out, and then I'm gonna put this--" He holds up the wrapper from a Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pie that he's carefully torn down the seal and wiped as much grime from as possible. "Right over the wound, okay?"

Nick's tracking him in the dark, probably more by Warrick's voice than by the ability to see him – but either way, he's paying attention. He nods and coughs out a '_'Kay_'.

"'S called a flutter valve. Now, normally," he says, knees scooting him closer, "Normally, I'd tape down three sides. The cellophane's gonna cover the wound so air can't get into your chest when you breath in, and that open side's gonna help you push whatever air you got in there, out. 'S why you're gonna have to hold down three edges on your own, a'ight? Ain't got tape."

"Stokes luck," Nick says, and Warrick's laughter is genuine this time.

"Stokes fuckin' suckin' luck. Yeah, bro." Warrick reaches forward and gives Nick's leg a squeeze. "You sure about this, man?"

And just because the universe is working that way today, the sound of Jeff's voice – '_I'M GONNA FIND YOU, MOTHERFUCKERS!_' - echoes through the maze of drains, leaving neither of them with much choice.

Nick's breathing immediately picks up. "Do it."

Warrick nods, bounces on his knees. "Okay. Okay… I'm… When I get the cellophane on there, you get your hands around three edges. I'm gonna wrap some of that upholstery around it, then lean you down on your side."

"M' cut side?"

Warrick hates the horror in Nick's voice. "Yeah, man. Sorry, it's…it's gonna help you breath better, Nicky. Get the good lung working harder for ya."

After two quick huffs of breath, Nick nods. "Okay, man. Okay."

_Like pullin' a tooth. Pullin' a tooth with a hook on the end of it_. "Nick," says Warrick gravely, "If you… When I… If you scream, man. Jeff's gonna hear that."

Nick swallows hard, and his muscles stiffen under Warrick's hand. "'M from Texas, 'member? I can cowboy up."

Warrick can't think about it another second. He doesn't even realize he's moved forward until the blade is almost all the way out and Nick's teeth show white in the dark where his lips have rolled back in a grimace. He's making a noise so high Warrick thinks a neighborhood dog is going to answer with a howl. And there's blood, more blood, and resistance at the very end that Warrick knows is the hooked tip snagging something, and then it's out. The motherfucking thing is out.

Warrick does just what he told Nick he was going to do; gets the wrapper over the wound, gets Nick's hand on three edges of the wrapper. He winds a few lengths of bloody upholstery around the jury-rigged flutter valve, binds Nick's hand right along with it to keep everything where it should be.

Warrick has to keep blinking, shaking his head; his vision is misty and his throat's all tight. Nick hasn't said a word since the knife's come out and Warrick just wants to hear him say it's okay. _Say you're okay, man._

He does it all on auto-pilot, head snapping back and forth between Nick's ghostly pale face and the flash and glint of the bloody knife at work. The unsharpened edge of the blade slips into the slot on the head of the screw with millimeters to spare. Warrick pauses for a second to figure out the reverse righty-tighty/lefty-loosey from his perspective, and then throws every ounce of himself against the hilt of the levered weapon.

There's a terrible hopeless moment of nothing – _No! No! Fuck no!_ – and then the irked shriek of rusted metal-on-metal as the screw gives way and turns. _Fuck yes!_

Warrick nearly loses his grip on the knife, but steadies himself, refocuses, and cranks the hilt all the way around, again and again, until the screw is holding on by just the last of its threads.

He wrenches the knife from the head slot of the screw, and works the last few centimeters excitedly by hand. He's turning to tell Nick, show Nick, save Nick when he freezes.

The tinny echo of sloshing footsteps – _motherfucking Jeff_ – is approaching the far end of their tunnel.

"_--find you_," comes the banger's voice. "_I'ma find you!"_

And Warrick holds his breath until the footfalls stomp past the intersection and recede further into the drain system. He crawls back to Nick, finding his partner's free hand in the damp darkness, and presses Nick's limp fingers around the hilt of the knife.

"Nicky, listen to me…"

Nick gives a grunt and a weak nod.

"I'll be back. Soon as I can."

Nick nods again, and Warrick feels his friend's hand tighten under his own, gripping the knife like he understands.

"Soon as I can," Warrick assures. And then he's swinging open the grate ans scrambling through the weeds outside the mouth of the culvert.

* * *

The third door opens onto a storeroom that looks like one of those currently cool tortureporn flicks has been filmed in it. Heavy blood spatter - like someone's dashed a can of carmine paint - is sprayed over one wall and a set of metal shelves. The source of the rusty fluid is crumpled on the floor in a darker, thickening puddle. 

Alex Arrué. He's been practically eviscerated, and his throat is slit from ear to ear.

Jim pulls the twice-folded printout of Jeff Carbonell's mugshot from his suit coat, and reacquaints himself with the thug's tattooed visage. Hands it off to Sam and while still staring at the lifeless form of Arrué points a thumb back into the warehouse. "Do me a favor, Sam, and go see if any of the mutts or corpses they have out there are our psycho?"

Sam nods and slips back out onto the shop floor while Jim scans the room for clues.

He steps carefully over the lake of blood and pushes aside a fallen box to find two sets of CSI vests, belts, and empty gun holsters. The shattered remains of two cells phones litter the floor along with the cut pieces of what Jim recognizes as zip-ties. Same ones his own force uses on riot duty.

More blood appears in drips and drops, here and there. A larger, more ominous looking puddle has multiple footprints smeared through it; the impressions of at least two different types of footwear showing on the grey-painted floor.

"What a fuckin' mess," Jim sighs as he pushes aside another box.

A standard issue fire extinguisher has been thrown down to one side of a door in the back corner of the room. The handle of the door has been smashed repeatedly, and now hangs from the heavy wood by a single bent screw.

The bloody footprints cluster in front of the exit, and Jim raises his Sig as he pushes the door open with his foot. It swings back to show a concrete pad, a standing ashtray with gravel in its bowl overflowing with butts off to the side for workers' smoke breaks. The prints are clear on the grey cement, then continue off into the ubiquitous yellow Vegas sand.

The expanse of the Mojave stretches out before him, and Jim allows himself a moment of panic. _W__hat the hell could drive two wounded men out into that?_ Then he gathers himself to resume following the prints.

Blood continues when the clearest footprints end. Someone is bleeding, and a hell of a lot by the looks of it. The prints at some places slur and the impression of two knees shows someone's faltering. Jim picks up the pace, his own feet slipping in the loose sand.

The dusty, bloody trail leads more or less straight to the fence, and Jim can see where the chain link has been twisted and pulled aside, the dirt underneath, dug up and disturbed.

To the left of the impromptu exit sluice, he can make out the lip of a culvert – the only kind of cover in the immediate area. Jim shakes his head at the prospect of the limbo he's going to have to do to get under the fence, but gamely scooches onto his back and begins to wriggle under. "Feel like Peter Fuckin' Cottontail trying to get away from Farmer Fuckin' McGregor," he mutters, but it's drowned out as a jet taking off from Nellis screams overhead.

He's halfway through, arching like a yogi contortionist, when the button placket of his shirt snags in the chain link. He tugs and wiggles and hears a rip. Feels a scratch across his stomach, and gets pinged in the cheek by a popped-off button. "Ah, Christ," he curses, and then jerks once more.

He drops, with an unceremonious '_hmph'_, to the hardpack below, brushes himself off, and eyes the contrail the jet's left across the cinnamon sky above. He absently rubs at the sting across his belly as he makes his way to the culvert.

From somewhere deep inside the tunnel, a lightly accented voice floats out:

"_I'ma find you!"_

Jim doesn't hesitate. Sig leading, he enters the culvert, stays off to the side to avoid the splashing his shoes would make in the water that covers the floor of the sewer. He leaves the last light of day behind; moving forward, swallowed by darkness.

* * *

Nick's trying to breathe as smoothly as possible, because every wavery breath he pulls in and blows out disturbs the water along the bottom of the tunnel; tickling his ear with wet and cold. He wants to sit up, wishes Warrick hadn't laid him down, but he can't. Can't move. Won't move. Hurts too much. 

He's got this sort of funny feeling in his chest, behind his eyes…it's not PAIN and it's not… It's not pain. But it hurts.

It might be hope; he's just not sure.

He knows he's hurt bad. Knows Warrick never would have taken out the knife if he wasn't desperate. So, he knows he's hurt bad. That he might die. And THAT hurts. But it's not pain.

_I was rescued…_

He was rescued. He'd been rescued so many times and – _oh, God_ – THERE was the pain. There was the pain and the ache and the HOPE.

_I was rescued._

And Nick wants so very much to be rescued right now. He doesn't want to die. Not like this.

_Please, not like this._

The whole right side of his body is going numb. He can feel the swampy water wicking into his clothes. Can feel the sun going down, and the temperature, too.

His left ear's facing up, open to the sounds of his own ragged breathing and the hollow drip and slap of water making tiny movement. His left ear's mostly submerged in the mucky sewer water, and it's kind of like listening to somebody talk underwater. He picks up gauzy reverberation every time his chest moves in and out, every time a little bubble of air pushes out past the open end of the cellophane on his chest.

He tightens up all his muscles and locks his jaw down on the giggle that wants to escape his lips because – _Christ_ – if he gets through this? He's gonna be the only guy in the world who can say he's been saved from death by fire ants and Little Debbie, both.

And there's that ache again. That hope. Because, goddamnit, he WAS rescued. And he will be again. _Please._ This is bad, he knows it's bad, but Warrick's on his way. Warrick's going to save him again. And breathing gets a little harder because he's trying not to cry. He doesn't want to cry, he wants to be strong. He wants to be sure. He wants…hope.

Because for all the jokes about his luck, and – _oh, shit_ – there are JOKES. For all the jokes, he really is a lucky guy. Because he should have been gone and done-with a couple of times by now.

The water vibrates around his left ear and splashes up near his nose. The smell is awful, but not as bad as the sound. Because he should have heard it. Should have heard him. Nick didn't even realize Jeff was there until he was almost on top of him.

"_¿Que pasa, weto? _Man, am I glad to see you." Jeff smiles and sniggers out a laugh, his teeth flashing white like the unbloodied patches on his t-shirt, socks, and shoes.

He looks like a ghost.

"You're a ghost," says Nick, and he wants to believe that.

Jeff's foot crashes into Nick's shoulder, forces him violently onto his back, and then Jeff's squatting down, leaning over him, swaying over him.

"Where's your friend?"

He says nothing, can't speak, can't breathe. Jeff moves like lightning, and Nick feels the cold steel of a gun pressed against his lips.

"You know how much fucking trouble you caused me, cop? How much money and opportunity? You and your fucking mouth?"

Even if he could formulate a response, the barrel of the gun is so tight against his lips he couldn't speak if he tried.

Jeff's other hand shoots forward, fists in Nick's destroyed henley. Nick's head is lifted off the ground, and his fingers involuntarily press against the wound in his side.

"Open your mouth, cop. So I can put a bullet in it."

All he can do is shake his head, but he doesn't. He won't. Won't give Jeff the satisfaction. Nick bites down hard, squeezes his battered lips tightly together. _Not like this_…

His defiance, for what it's worth, doesn't make a difference; the steel tunnel explodes with the sound of a single gunshot.


	13. Trece

* * *

**A/N: This is it, folks. End of the road. Thanks for taking the journey with us - hope you enjoyed. Links to personal author's notes from everybetty and kimonky7 can be found on the everymonkey profile page, if you're so inclined.**

**Disclaimer:** While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving.

**SPOILERS/Timeline:** Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'

**UNDYING GRATITUDE:** To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.

* * *

CHAPTER 13 - Lanzamiento

Jim's fingers are clenched painfully around the grip of his Sig. The gun's muzzle doesn't lower a millimeter in the heartbeat it takes to shoot Carbonell through the back of the skull. Before the banger's body can drop, Jim rushes forward and latches on to the collar of his t-shirt. Flings him, like a rag doll, to the side.

Nick's on his back on the floor of the sewer, covered in brain matter, head submerged near to the ear in dark fetid water. He's silent, twitching, gasping for breath, and Jim flashes back to that night in May. _Trade blood and water for dirt and it's the same._

"Jesus, Nicky…. Hey, kid." Jim squats, puts his face in front of Nick's, and wonders if the injured man is even seeing him. He scrambles inside his coat for his walkie. "We need a med team! Right now!"

Nick flinches with the words and Jim puts a hand on his shoulder, grips it, squeezes it, leaves it there while he waits for the topside team's response.

_"What's your 20?"_

_What the fu-- _He presses the button and practically swallows the radio. "I'm in a fucking sewer! I don't know where the hell I am! What the hell is YOUR 20?" and speaking of where the hell people are..."Warrick? Nicky, where's Warrick?"

Nick raises a hand that glows like cave fungus, and waves toward the mouth of the culvert. "Out," he half-whispers in a scratchy, gusty voice. "Gr-grate."

The radio squawks and Sam's voice bounces through the static. _"Jim, how far'd you go back? You take any turns?" _

He takes a second to blow out an angry breath, cool himself a little. Presses down on the com button. "Look for Warrick. He...He should be out along the fence somewhere. I'm at the end of a culvert with Nick. We need a bus. Now."

"_Ten four," _Sam responds coolly. There's another _chhk, _then Sam's voice is back, softer, closer to the mouthpiece. _"What's goin' on there, Jim?"_

_Jesus._ He looks down at Nick, struggling for breath. "It's bad, Sam. I dunno. It's bad. I got Carbonell. Carbonell's dead."

"_Madre de dios," _Sam whispers. There's the sound of movement, a rubbing against the mike, then Sam comes back, voice brighter. _"We got Brown, Jim. We've got him. He's okay."_

Jim hears faint shouts, first through the radio's speaker and then realizes he can hear them real-time, too. He scuttles around Nick and leans against the grate. "I can hear you," Jim says into his walkie, then drops it, presses his face against the metal cage and yells out into the night. "I can hear you! Hey! Right here!"

The voices outside start a chorus of, _'Over here! They're here! Pull the medics off the warehouse! Jim! We got ya, man! We see you!'_

Jim swivels toward Nick. His hand goes back to its place on the CSI's shoulder, pulling him up, out of the stinking filth, to lean against Jim's hip.

Nick moans, cries out in pain and exhaustion - not enough relief to tell Jim the kid's heard that help is on the way. "They're comin', Nicky. Just hang on. Hang on…" His voice trails away as he pulls the younger man tighter into his arms. He puts his lips to Nick's ear, whispers again. "Just hang on. They're coming."

And they are.

He can hear a crowd gathering overhead, moving closer. There's the _'ping-pang' _of bolt cutters snipping through chain link and then Warrick's skidding and tripping in the mucky weeds at the mouth of the culvert.

"Nick!"

Warrick grabs frantically at the grate, swinging it to the side like a pendulum, and Jim sees now how the CSI got out. There are more shouts from outside and above them, and then two EMTs are pushing Warrick to the side and climbing into the crowded culvert. The younger EMT of the two goes first to Jeff's body, laying to the side of where Jim cradles Nick.

"Don't you fucking touch him!" Jim snarls. "He's worm food. Leave the shit here where he belongs." He knows he needs to let the medics work on Nick, but he perversely pulls him in tighter.

The EMT draws back from Jeff's body - half because of Jim, half because he sees the body doesn't have a face - and quickly moves toward Jim. "Sir, I need you to let us get a look at him," he says, while the other medic is uncoiling the oxygen tubing and connecting a mask to an O2 tank.

Jim tries to nod, to let the EMT know he understands, but the tendons in his neck have knotted up so tightly the gesture is more of a twitch, pulling his chin to his chest. He starts to uncurl his body from its protective hunch over Nick's form but freezes, recoiling as Nick lets out a whimper like an injured dog.

"We've got major chest trauma," says one of the EMTs, and they both swarm in. Jim's pushed away with a practiced ease, and then it's flying scissors and gauze and blood, and a whole fucking bunch of lingo Jim's brain can't even begin to process. He finds himself, back against the grate, and then Warrick's tugging at his jacket from behind. "Jim! Hey! How's he doin', man?"

Jim can't take his eyes off the train wreck in front of him. One of the EMTs holds aloft a piece of shiny plastic, bright letters on one side, gory, dark blood on the other. "What the fuck? Hey, Travis! You believe this? It's a fuckin' Little Debbie wrapper!"

Jim hears the screech of rusty metal, and the grate's sliding open again. He turns, sees Warrick's wide eyes, and starts to ease himself out of the opening. "He's... They're..."

His pant leg snags on a bent wire at the passageway's edge, and cuts through the fucking cursed brown suit leg and into his calf. He barely registers the sharp sting, rips the pant leg off at the knee, and leaves the amputated fabric clinging to the fence, flapping in the breeze. "Rick... What the hell happened?... His chest... His face…"

Two more EMTs scramble down the steep incline, a gurney in the width between them. They push past both men and shout to the medics already with Nick. Sam's there suddenly, pulling Warrick and Brass from the edge of the action.

Jim passes a hand down his face and, without warning, grabs Warrick in a huge embrace.

Warrick startles with a hiss, then gives in to it. Returns the gesture with a tighter grip before pulling back.

Jim notices the pain that crinkles Warrick's eyes and furrows his brow. "What? You okay, Rick? Damn it, why didn't you say anything?"

The doubled-up med teams are passing Nick through the grate like a crowd-surfing rock star. They get him on the gurney on his side, and before anyone can ask a question or say a word, they've strapped him down and have him moving up the incline toward an open ambulance. Warrick tries to follow, but Jim holds on to him.

The light has gone from orange to blue, typical for early evening in November, but Jim catches a glint off the dark fabric of Warrick's shirt; his shoulder glistens wetly.

Jim tries to pull his attention away from Nick being carried off. "What happened? Is that a GSW?"

Warrick has yet to respond to anything he's saying, and Jim takes a minute to really look at his friend.

It's obvious he's taken his licks as well. His lip is fattened and caked with black blood, and his normally lean jaw line puffs out with an angry purpling bruise. He's hunched over his one hand, the other - attached to the uninjured shoulder - is clenched into a tight fist. He's noticeably shaking in the cool autumn air.

"Rick, you need to get looked at."

Sam clears his throat. "Look who's talkin', short pants. You two both need medical attention. We'll go in the Taurus, lights and siren. Probably get there before the bus and Nick."

Jim keeps one hand on Warrick's shoulder - _just keeping track. Not gonna lose you again today_ - and looks down disgustedly at his pants and bleeding leg.

"Come on," says Sam, "You still owe me a cup of coffee."

* * *

Sam makes good on his word; the Taurus is parked and the three of them are tumbling out as the ambulance roars into the ER bay of Desert Palms. Jim and Sam try, but short of a physical restraint, they're not keeping him from the beehive of activity that swarms around the back of the bus as his best friend is unloaded and rushed into the emergency room. 

The doctor's rolling Nick onto his back while the rest of the team boogies the gurney to a triage bay.

"Male, 30's, penetrating chest wound. Knife removed--"

"Who's the asshat who did that?"

"That'd be me," says Warrick at Nick's feet.

The doctor, who'd been glaring at the EMT and his partner like she was going to set them on fire, aims her look toward Warrick.

The EMT, relieved to be out from under her eyes, swallows and spits out the rest of the pertinent information. "Make-shift occlusive applied before we arrived on scene. Non-tension open pneumothorax, possible pneumohemothorax. BP is 80/20, no radial pulse, carotid thready and irregular."

There's no reassurance for Warrick in having been right in his diagnosis. He'd rather be wrong.

"Possible head trauma, cyanotic, early stage hypovolemic shock. LOC en route. In and out. Did thoracocentesis in the truck to relieve the pleural pressure, didn't intubate. Wide open on 02, established a central line and have Ringer's and saline on board."

The doctor shrugs off her stethoscope as soon as the gurney is stopped in the room, gives Warrick the once over while a nurse cuts away the remains of Nick's henley, and starts on his filthy jeans. "You his partner?"

"Yeah."

"Type and crossmatch and get O neg up," the doctor barks to another nurse ringside at the gurney. The doc listens to Nick's chest, round pad of the stethoscope dropping and pausing over half a dozen spots. "I've got hyperresonance on the right. Let's get a chest tube in."

The doctor finds Warrick's face again, and he sees her make the decision; knows it'll be more trouble to get rid of him than to let him stay. He's glad Nick's got a smart doctor.

"Nick Stokes, right?" she asks.

"Yeah. Nick. His name's Nick," and Warrick figures everybody in the old protect and serve and save circles has been expecting them to show up at some point. He figures the gossip lines from dispatch, to PD, to FD, to ambulance company must be buzzing with Nick's name. Again.

"What's that smell?" one of the nurses asks, wrinkling her nose.

"Sewer," answers Warrick. "We were… Sewer water."

The doc nods her head, flitting a penlight over Nick's eyes. "Let's push antibiotics IV. Need to irrigate his chest and these cuts on his face," and then she's back to Warrick again. "He have any allergies?"

Warrick shakes his head. "No."

The doctor – stocky, middle-aged, all business – leans over Nick's face. "Mr. Stokes? Can you hear me?"

Nick moans, whether in reply to the doc or to the nurse probing his side, Warrick can't tell.

"Mr. Stokes? My name's Dr. Mercer. You're at Desert Palms hospital. You were stabbed in the--"

"No shit," Nick growls, and a wee smile falls across the doctor's thin lips.

She pats his arm. "Good. I like them feisty. Nick, we're going to take you to surgery. Fix you up, okay?"

"Rick?" he calls out miserably.

The doc looks in Warrick's direction and gives him a curt nod.

Warrick steps around the scrambling nurses and hovers over Nick, trying to keep his eyes off the terrible whistling wound in his partner's side. "Hey, Nicky. I'm right here."

"Rick?"

"Yeah, man. You're okay. Gonna be okay." Warrick sees white roll up between Nick's swollen lids and looks for the doctor, slightly alarmed. "He--"

"He's just passed out," she says reassuringly. "Let's get him upstairs," she says to the gaggle of med personnel. "And call in ortho, too. They can set his nose while he's out."

And then Nick's gone. The gurney's whisked out of the triage bay and through a set of double doors at the far end of the room.

Everything spins and Warrick starts to sag. Dr. Mercer steps forward, helps him ease down onto a rolling stool set against the wall.

"Whoa, whoa. You're not going to pass out on me, are you?"

_Maybe. No._ He isn't quite sure. "I just--"

"You just need a little medical attention yourself," she says, peeling back the frayed edges of shirt. She prods the bullet wound, eliciting a groan from him.

"He's gonna…"

"Be fine. We'll fix him up. Don't worry." She picks up The handset from the wall phone above his head. Punches a few buttons. "Can you page Jacobs to triage 3. I need some work on a superficial GSW."

She hangs up and crosses her arms over her chest. "So you had a reason for taking out the knife, I assume. What did you use for an occlusive?"

Warrick blushes, feels flush. "Little Debbie wrapper. Was all I had."

The doctor arches an eyebrow. "Well, shit."

Warrick chuckles.

"You know, you probably saved his life."

His throat tightens and he has to blow out a breath. "He's my best friend."

* * *

Sam's off finding out about Warrick, and Jim's halfway through a three-year-old National Geographic - some article about jellyfish or mummies or something, who the fuck knows - when a red-haired hurricane blows into the ER. He almost laughs; Gil comes following more slowly at her heels, head down like a man forced to carry his wife's purse at the mall. 

Jim stands, drops the magazine in his seat, and starts over to them. He doesn't make it two steps before Catherine's arms are around him, swallowing him up as if she's not 5'5 in heels. He buries his face in her neck. So VISCERALLY happy to smell perfume and shampoo that help clear the sewer from his nose.

"Oh, Jim," is all that she can choke out.

"I'm good, Cath," he murmurs. "We brought 'em home."

She pulls back and holds onto his shoulders. Fixes him with tear-filled eyes. He manages a game smile under her gaze.

"You look like hell," she half laughs, half sobs. "All Warrick said was that Nick's in surgery. What happened?"

Jim waits until Gil has made his way over and the two friends exchange knowing nods. _I did it, Gil. I got our guys back._

"You two mind if I, uh…?" He points back at the chair and doesn't wait for their answer. Slumps back down and rolls the magazine in his hands.

They take the seats on either side of him and move in close. Catherine's hand is on his arm, and he's about to pull away when he remembers. Remembers keeping one hand on Warrick's shoulder… just to keep track. So instead he sighs, pats her hand, and rests his head back against the waiting room wall.

"Long story short, bad guys had 'em at the upholstery shop like we figured. A slight case of gang warfare broke out and Nick 'n' Rick slipped out the back. I uh… I found 'em down in a sewer tunnel. Took out the psycho, and called in the troops."

Gil nods. "We got the match back right after you left. The prints from the 420 you were at this morning came back to Jeff Antonio Carbonell. When you say, took out you mean…"

Jim just smiles grimly. "All in a days work, Gil."

"Well, it was good work, Jim," Catherine reassures him with an arm squeeze. "I swear we need to put GPS chips in those two. I had one put into Bob."

Jim raises an eyebrow at her and she smirks. "Lindsay's labradoodle, Bob. Frickin' dog cost me two k- it's not goin' ANYwhere."

"Wasn't their fault," Jim says more seriously.

Gil is already shaking his head. "We know, Jim. We saw the tape, remember? No one blames you."

'_Cept for me._ "Yeah, except for IAB, but then, what else is new?"

Catherine fights a smile and chews on her lip. "Once word got out that his number one campaign contributor was connected with MS-13? Let's just say Burdick decided to take a little vacation with his family…and the _nanny_. And he announced he wanted nothing on his desk when he came back. The only open file was yours, coincidentally."

"Word got out?" Jim asks with a raised eyebrow.

"I'm not sayin' who," Catherine says slyly. "But you may wanna buy Conrad lunch when you get back."

Jim turns to catch Gil nodding with a shrug of his shoulder, confirming that Hell has indeed frozen over.

"They say when Nicky's outta surgery?"

"Few hours at least I figure, Cath," Jim says as he wipes a hand down his face, rasping his full day's worth of beard growth.

"Then you have time to get fixed up," she says, tugging on his arm and getting him to rise.

"Fixed up?" he asks stupidly.

"You're a mess, Jim."

He holds his arms out, looks down at himself. Half a pants leg is gone and the other has a dark water stain most of the way up his calf. There's a tear in his jacket and the middle button of his dress shirt is missing. The swell of his white t-shirt clad belly peeks through. Most disturbing of all though is the oily dark stain that mars the lapels and one entire side. Brown coats the shirt cuff there and one jacket sleeve looks like it might have Jeff's--

Jim quickly pulls the jacket off and holds it out. "Not sure if you'll need it for the case, but if you don't? For the love of God, burn the damn thing would ya?"

* * *

His second sock peels off and hits the floor next to his shoes with an audible '_splat_'. Jim settles himself back onto the gurney with a sigh. The flowered backless gown isn't exactly what HE'D have chosen, but at least it isn't stinking, wet, and covered in blood. Or other even less desirable biological fluids. 

The curtain pulls back and a familiar face enters. And he thinks she might have actually brightened at sight of him.

"Hey, Ginny. Isn't your shift over and uh, a couple floors up?"

"Picked up an extra shift in the ER. You come in with the stab wound guy?" she asks as she opens a drawer and pulls out a suture kit and a kidney dish.

"Yeah. You know how he's doin'?"

Ginny snorts derisively. "The Gods of the OR don't deign to keep us mere mortals of the ER in the loop - even those of us who normally work in surgical. But my friend Lottie's up in Recovery tonight. I'll ask her to gimme a ring once he gets out."

Jim nods tiredly. "That'd be good, thanks. How you... How you wanna do this?"

Ginny pulls over a rolly stool and lifts his leg to look at the deep gash on his calf. "Oooh," she says, pulling in a breath. "That's a dandy. What did this? Barbed wire?"

"Wire gate over a sewer culvert."

Ginny's twirling her finger at him, and Jim follows her instructions like a good trained dog, rolling over onto his belly on the bed. He nests his head on his arms. Closes his eyes for the first time in what feels like days. "Hey, go easy on me, would ya? I've had a rough day."

Ginny kneads the skin around his wound, looking for a good place for the Lidocaine. "Oh, yeah?" She affects a sniff in the direction of his pile of clothing. "Does smell like you had a shitty one."

Jim chuffs out a laugh into the pillow. "Yeah." He tenses, sucks in a breath briefly as the anesthetic is injected, then eases back down. "Yeah," he echoes himself. "Killed someone and almost lost two friends."

The hand on his leg stills, then briskly returns to business; he can feel an odd pulling sensation on his calf.

"Well, the almost part doesn't sound bad," Ginny says quietly. "You didn't, right?"

"No. But the, uh, stab wound guy… He was looking pretty rough when they brought him in."

She pulls a lamp over closer. "He a cop, too? And the tall, dark and handsome GSW with him?"

Jim just nods his head on his arms; no reason to go into details. "I, uh, had some shit goin' on. On the job, and they… They got swept up in it. Tryin' to help meout."

"Oh yeah?" Ginny says casually. "You're a captain, right? Couldn't be too bad a problem if you still have that fancy gold shield."

"Yeah. Yeah, that and a dollar might buy you a cuppa coffee."

"Well, it's only fifty cents from the vending machine in the lobby. When we're done here, how's about I buy you a cup?"

"It's a date," Jim says, turning his head to see Ginny smiling as she's swabbing down her work with Betadine.

"Oh, hell no. I'm not that cheap of a date, Detective Brass."

"That's Captain Brass," Jim says smugly.

"Alrighty. CaptainHow's about you lower those shorts to half mast for me?"

Jim half rises onto his elbows, craning his neck to see Ginny prepping a syringe from the kidney dish.

"Come again?" is all he can manage.

Ginny raises an eyebrow and waits, needle in hand. "You can't very well take me out on a date if you've got tetanus, can you?"

He sighs, settles his head back down and closes his eyes. "Can't argue with that logic, ma'am," is muffled by the pillow. He wriggles, maneuvers, does what he has to, and waits for the inevitable.

Ginny leans over and whispers in his ear. "Tell you what, sugar. You buy me a nice enough dinner and you just might get to see _my _ass."

It's enough to take away some of the sting.

* * *

When he wakes up, he's alone. 

There's none of that movie bullshit disorientation; he knows where he is, and he remembers how he got here. The room's dark, the window showing nothing but midnight sky. It takes him a second to realize he's only seeing out of one eye - and then he becomes aware of the pain.

He knows the problem SHOULD be in his chest, but it's the broken nose that hurts the worst. It throbs. Aches. The pain runs through his sinuses, up over his eyes, and into his cheeks and jaw. His teeth feel like they're being thrust from their seats in the bone by the pressure; like he has the world's worst sinus infection, and is standing on his head.

His mouth is dry and pasty inside, and he runs his tongue across his lips. The soft flesh of the underside snags and ticks across a row of stitches that climb around the contour of his lower lip. Further investigation confirms his upper lip to be a twin.

Between a nose he figures must be swollen to the size of a cantoloupe, the stitched lips, and the light that's only barely peeking through the swollen lids of his left eye, he can only assume he looks like Mike Tyson in the tenth round of the '90 Douglas fight.

He REALLY wants some water; his throat is parched and raw. He recalls briefly waking up in recovery, them pulling out the intubation gear, telling him he'd had surgery and he was going to be okay. He doesn't FEEL okay. He feels like shit. Thirsty shit.

There's something in his left hand. Might be a buzzer or a button for the pain pump he's probably hooked to. Figures if he presses it enough times he'll either get a nurse or a little more sleep. _Six-ah one..._ He lays his thumb against the button and holds it down.

A few seconds later he decides that maybe his infamous Stokes fuckin' suckin' luck may have finally thrown him a bone, because he gets the rush of cold he recognizes as a little hit of something - _please let it be morphine_ - and the arrival of a nurse wearing an ugly smock and a warm smile.

"Well, hello. How you doin'?" she asks in a voice that probably once bounced around New York haunts. "Kinda thought you'd be up pretty soon. See you figured out the pain pump,"

The hand checking his pulse gives his wrist a gentle squeeze. "My name's Lottie. I'm gonna take your temp and check your chest tube, 'kay?"

_Long as I don't gotta move._ He lets his lone good eye slip closed, perfectly willing to let her do just about anything as long as he can find his way back to that warm, dark, comforting place. Someplace backward from the pain that's nesting in his chest, a place free of shit-smelling sewer water and tattooed psychos with knives.

He feels the sheets flutter around him, and it sends a little shiver down his spine. He doesn't mean to, but he lets out a little moan when the movement sets off fire in his chest.

Lottie doesn't even pause, just keeps doing her thing. "You okay, hon?"

_Don't answer, just sleep. Find it. Find it. _

But the comfort he seeks is elusive, slips from his grasp with a sucked in hiss and he feels it back inside him. Like the knife is still inside him. Feels the scraping on the bone that sent vibrations through his entire rib cage.

"I'm--" His voice sounds terrible, all nasal-packed and scratchy. "Water?" he asks, getting right to the point.

"No can do, sport. Sorry. I can get ya a coupla mouth swabs. Taste like lemony-somethin', but at least it's moisture, right?"

She taps him on the chin with a finger. "Open up so I can take your temp?"

'_Open your mouth, cop. So I can put a bullet in it.'_

He holds his breath. Doesn't move.

_Not the same. Not there. You're safe_. And he knows it, but it still takes him a second before he's willing to loosen his jaw. His upper lip burns along the stitched split, and a wave of nausea passes over him when the plastic temp strip is forced under his tongue. Thick saliva gathers in the back of his throat and he starts to gag.

"Hey, hey," Lottie says, and lays her cool palm against the side of his face that doesn't feel like a Civil War battlefield. "You're okay. Just swallow. Swallow for me, Nick."

He tries. It takes a couple go-rounds, but he finally manages to force down the viscous spit. "Sorry," he slurs out.

"Nothin' to be sorry about, okay?" she says, and then her hand is gone and so is the plastic temp stick.

A little more awake now, he watches her toss the thermometer in the trash, then quietly bustle about his bedside. She checks the triple decker IV he's rockin', and then a pouch she pulls from a spot at the side of the bed. He feels a little yank at his chest, visually follows the tube running from the pouch. He's pretty sure what's going on, figures the dark mess inside the pouch is blood. His blood. From inside his chest. "Is that...?"

He squints at her and clears his throat, but before he can finish the question she's nodding.

"Don't worry. We put most of it back," she says brightly, tapping a plastic bag filled with what looks like red velvet cake batter on yet another pole. "You're doin' great. You just relax."

She gives his blanket one last adjust. "I'll get those swabs for ya. In the meantime, you gotta coupla anxious friends that wanna see ya. If I move slow, they can probably sneak in before I get a call through to the doctor to tell her you're awake. You feel up to it?"

He feels GUILTY is what he feels. _Shit._ He sorta kinda thinks he remembers Rick taking a bullet at some point. "My partner was--"

"He's one of 'em that's waitin' to see ya."

Relief washes over him like the morphine had. "Yeah. That'd be good."

She serves him up a warm smile and a wink. "Gimme a sec," she says, and then she's out the door.

So, Warrick's okay. That's good. That's good. And Jim... He doesn't know what he's going to say to Jim, because - _Jesus, oh, Jesus_ - Jeff was going to kill him, and then Jim—

A pie wedge of light from the hallway falls across the room, and then there they both are.

Lottie must have flipped on the light over his bed at some point, he realizes, because he can make out that Warrick and Jim look like absolute shit. They SMELL like shit, too, even to Nick's crushed nose. But he feels the corners of his mouth curl up because - _They're here. They're okay. You saved me, Rick. You saved me, Jim. I was rescued. Thank you. Thank you. _

His throat constricts and he feels a hot tear topple over his lower lid. It snags up on the tube of the nasal cannula, rides around his cheek, and drips down next to his ear. He wipes it away absently. "Hey, guys," he chokes out.

Jim's the first to move. To smile. "Hey, Nicky."

He walks over to the bed, hesitates for a second, then grabs Nick's IV punctured hand and squeezes it before clearing his throat. "How you feelin', kid?"

"Thanks, Jim, for--" Nick can't say it.

Jim just shakes his head. "Hey. You got my back, I got yours. It's good. We're good."

He gives Nick's hand another squeeze and then Warrick's stepping up, bedside.

Nick can see he's in a scrub shirt, arm in a satiny blue sling across his chest. "You okay, Rick?"

His partner snorts out a laugh and shakes his head. "I'm good, bro." He shrugs the injured shoulder with a little wince, but grins. "Just a flesh wound, right?"

"Yeah," says Nick. "Me too, huh?"

Warrick whistles and tosses his head back to smile at the ceiling. "Man, you gotta be kiddin' me. Dude, you got shishkabobed."

"Gigged like a frog," says Nick, and then winces as he holds back a small chuckle. "Just tell me I imagined the part where you patched me up with a snack cake wrapper."

"Who says junk food kills, huh?" Jim chimes in. "Knew there was a reason I kept Dolly Madison in business."

There's a chorus of light laughter, and then the three fall silent.

Nick sniffs and makes a face as the copper taste of blood rushes to the back of his throat. He's had enough blood for a while. His or anyone else's. But he's a CSI, likes his loose ends tied up.

"Back at the--" he starts, pauses, starts again. "Our evidence from the original scene get processed? Jeff, he said Graciela--"

Warrick's already nodding, thankfully saving Nick from trying to work the words out through his still muddled brain. "Lab already confirmed the prints we lifted from the scene were Jeff's. Seems kinda anticlimactic now... Jim..."

Jim shuffles his feet and takes in a good expanse of floor.

"Saved my life," Nick says, finishing Warrick's dangling sentence for him.

The door to the room pops open, and Lottie breezes back in.

"Okay, gents. You got five minutes tops before the doctor gets here. Don't make me look bad. She can be a real bear."

She maneuvers expertly around Jim and Warrick, pulls the table tray over to Nick's other side. She drops a couple of small square packages on the tray, rips one open, and pulls out what looks like sucker stick with a sponge for a lollipop.

"Brought you the swabs, sport. Just run 'em through your mouth. Like I said, they don't taste great, but it's the best we can do for ya until tomorrow morning, 'kay?"

"I hear those things taste like ass," teases Jim.

Lottie shoots him a smirk. "Speaking of, word on the floor is Ginny got a good look at yours."

Nick's jaw drops open in shock, and the nurse takes the opportunity to shove a foul, wouldn't-taste-like-lemon-if-you-soaked-it-in-Pledge swab into his mouth.

Warrick mutters an '_Oh, no she didn't_,' and covers his mouth to hide the smirk.

Jim flushes a brilliant red. "Musta been worth talkin' about," is all he can muster.

Warrick's still shaking his head looking sideways at Jim, when he reaches into the fold of his sling. Nick hears the crinkle of plastic and then sees the colorful wrappers of a fist full of chips, candy bars, and vending machine snacks.

"You'll have to clear it with the doc, of course, but uh..."

Jim chuckles, obviously in on the joke. "We thought you might be a little hungry. Want some...munchies."

"You guys are cruel," Nick mumbles around the swab. "I can't even have water and you're..." It takes a minute as he sees the two men laughing, and he knows he's not tracking, not processing like he should - _damn it, I just had major surgery, gimme a break_ - because it dawns on him then.

The joke. The weed. The munchies. Mari-fuckin'-juana. _Ha, ha._

He lets his train of thought run, and when it finally reaches its destination – _oh, shit!_ - he blurts out, "My piss."

Warrick and Jim both bust with laughter.

"Jesus, kid," says Jim. "I think Human Resources is gonna let you forgo the next dribble cup exam."

Nick feels his cheeks heat with blush. "Yeah, I...shit. I'm never gonna live this down, am I?"

Warrick sobers, stops his cackle, but doesn't drop his smile. His hand falls on Nick's shoulder, squeezes, and then slides up to lay against the side of Nick's neck. "You're livin'. That's what matters."

_I'm livin'. I was rescued_.

"Thanks to you guys." And Nick means it. Knows that once again, he owes his life to his friends, his family.

No man is an island, but he lives pretty damn close to that usually. Especially since last May. And it feels kind of good to lean on someone for a change. He allows that knowledge and the warmth - the comfort it brings - to settle in and make itself at home.

Lottie pops her head in the room, whistles lightly through her teeth. "Sorry, boys. Doctor Mercer's on the floor. Gotta clear ya out, or it's my butt on the line."

Jim opens his mouth to say something, but the nurse is moving quicker than the tuckered out detective. "And we both know you're not goin' there, short stuff, because Ginny's not gonna wanna hear you were referring to my assets."

"What are ya, already married to this woman?" Warrick asks with a snort.

"Haven't even been on the first date," Jim grumbles. He rubs absently at his rump and smiles. "Got further with her already than I did on my last two, though."

"Shit," says Warrick. "Speakin' of wives, I gotta call Tina." His hand pulls away from Nick's neck, and settles briefly against Nick's chest.

Nick can feel the thump of his heart against his friend's palm, and knows it's there because of him.

"Yeah, man. Go. Both of ya look like shit." He smiles weakly. "But come back in the morning, huh? Jim, I wanna hear all about how me nearly gettin' killed is the only way you get lady action."

"Less like action, more like a pain in the ass, kid," Jim laughs. "You sure you don't want one of us stickin' around? I hear these chairs are mighty comfy..."

Nick's head dips a little, he swallows hard. "Nah. 'M good. Gonna make like a Jeopardy contestant in a second here," he says, holding up the delivery button for the morphine pump. "'Sides, I know you'll be back tomorrow. Depatment's probably gonna cut some hours next coupla days."

Lottie sticks her head in the door again. "Don't make me call the cops, guys. Out. Now. Visiting hours start at 8:00 in the morning. Your friend needs his rest."

"A'ight," says Warrick with a final pat on Nick's shoulder. "We better get outta here before it gets ugly."

"We'll be back in the morning. You want us to bring you anything?"

_Just yourselves. Just your friendship. Just be here_. But he doesn't say that. "Coffee? If I remember right, the stuff here sucks."

"Anything else? I hear the food's not great, either."

"We could swing by Rosie's. Huevos Rancheros?"

Nick pulls up one corner of his mouth. "'S long as it ain't pupusas."

Jim looks confused, but Warrick smiles lightly, acknowledging the joke. He gives Nick's shoulder another squeeze.

"A'ight, man. Get some sleep. We'll be back in the morning."

They're halfway out the door when Nick calls Warrick back. He can't let his friend leave. Not quite yet.

Warrick waves Jim out into the hallway, and crosses the room to Nick's bed. "You okay, bro? You want me to get the nurse?"

"Nah, I just--" Nick's jaw tightens and he exhales with a '_whoo_'. Shakes his head and then presses it back into the clean white coolness of the pillow. His thumb runs lightly around the contoured edge of the delivery button in his hand. "I'm sorry."

"What?"

"I'm sorry. Sorry I got us—got you into this mess today and--"

"Nicky."

He's been avoiding looking at him, can't face him through all he needs to say. He feels Warrick's hand wrap around his and squeeze tight.

"Don't apologize for bein' a good man, Nick. Don't apologize for doin' the right thing."

"But I never meant for--"

"Look at me, man."

And Nick takes his eyes off the shadowy ceiling and puts them on Warrick.

"We've both been doin' this gig for long enough to know that woman and her kid would probably be dead if you hadn't done what you did."

_Oh, shit. The woman…_

And he knows it must show on his face because Warrick shakes his head, squeezes his hand again.

"Both fine. Fine and safe and alive, because of you."

Nick's face feels hot, and tears well in his eyes making everything glare and shine. "But…after, Rick." And his voice cracks. "I was scared, man. And I know you had to be, too. But you…you kept it together and you saved me."

"Aw, Nick…"

"And I'm sorry, man. 'Cause ya seem to keep gettin' put in that position and I'm sorry."

"Nicky."

He can't say it right. Can't figure out how to wrap GRATEFUL in the sorry. How to tell Warrick what he means to him and make him understand. He drops his head back against the pillow and shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

He feels Warrick squeeze his hand tighter. Tightest.

"You're my best friend."

* * *

end 


End file.
